“Yeah,” Conrad said. “Hard. I guess you never know everything about someone. Guess you go with your gut. What did Mom say?”
“She said, Ask yourself two things: Is he kind, and do you trust him?”
“Nothing about serial killers,” he said. “So, do you?” He wondered what Claire would say about him. Was he kind to her? Should she trust him?
“I think so. But you know, it’s hard to focus on things like that. It’s like picking something out of the air. What if there’s something about him that will drive me crazy in ten years? And I know there will be. I mean, I know you have to forgive people the little things, it’s just…” She paused. “I guess I can’t figure out what the big things are.” She shook her head and turned to him. “What about you and Claire? How are things?”
“Kind of up in the air. I don’t know what she wants.”
“What do you want?”
“Yeah,” Conrad said. “That’s the thing. I don’t really know that, either.”
It flooded around him again, the sense of being back, but lost. He wanted Claire to take him back, but then what?
At Quantico they’d memorized the leadership traits: bearing, courage, decisiveness, dependability, endurance, enthusiasm, initiative, integrity, judgment, justice, knowledge, loyalty, tact, and unselfishness. They’d memorized the six troop-leading steps, BAMCIS: Begin planning. Arrange for reconnaissance. Make reconnaissance. Complete the plan. Issue the order. Supervise. Speed was a weapon. The Marines’ method was maneuver warfare; they slipped around the hard surfaces of the enemy, into the vulnerable ones. Never attack in the teeth of the guns. Indecision is a decision. He knew all these things.
Jenny looked at him, then away. “That’s kind of how you seem. Out of focus.” She paused. “Not too happy.” She paused again and flicked a glance at him. “Would you think of seeing a shrink?”
“It’s not like that,” Conrad said.
As the train rattled on southward, new people got on at every stop and the cars began to fill. It made Conrad uneasy. Faces kept appearing in the doorway, people tossed bags onto the overhead rack with a sliding thud, people walked in and out of the car, the door suddenly rattling open, a new face appearing or someone disappearing.
He’d thought of seeing a shrink, but he had nothing specific to say. Whatever he had was formless, indistinct. And anyway this was military stuff, a civilian wouldn’t understand. There were shrinks in the VA, if he wanted to talk to one, which he did not.
During the last month at Pendleton, after coming back from deployment, he’d filled out the mental health forms, the questions about symptoms for PTSD: panic attacks, flashbacks, insomnia. Headaches. There was no point in putting all that on your record. Everything the Marines had ever drilled into him said suck it up. He was back, and he wanted to put all that behind him. And at that point it hadn’t all started yet. He’d had insomnia, some panic attacks, but he’d thought it would all stop once he was home. It seemed sort of late to claim it now.
Now that he was really back home, he’d get through it. He’d gotten through it over there, in-country, when it was real. There was no point in raising the issue now, when everything was over. There was the question of objective reality. There were no IEDs on these roads. No snipers in upstairs windows or on overpasses. No one was firing mortars or rocket-propelled grenades. The point was to keep yourself under control. This was the mission: Suck it up.
A man in his mid-twenties pushed open the train door. He was short and burly, dark-skinned, with big, dark, liquid eyes and thick lips. His hair was buzzed short and he wore a basketball jacket and jeans. He held a cup of coffee, and a tiny wire snaked its way up his neck to his ear. He made his way down the aisle and sat down across from Conrad and Jenny, sliding over to the window without looking around. He took the lid off his coffee and began drinking, staring out the window. His head was bobbing to the beat of whatever was coming through his earbuds.
That morning Conrad had done a hundred push-ups on his bedroom floor, his body rock solid, thrusting himself up over and over. He whispered the count as he rose. After that he’d done a hundred crunches, rising easily, hands locked behind his head. Then he’d gone out and run the four-mile circle on the dirt road, the short, steep hills with the twisting corners, the long slope up through the meadows, the short paved stretch coming home. Respecting his body, keeping it strong and ready, was part of something he’d promised himself.
It irritated Conrad that this guy seemed to feel so safe, so comfortable, that he didn’t even need to look around, make one single assessing glance, figure out who was nearby, where trouble might come from. Why did he feel so fucking entitled to safety? The car was full of strangers, all of them carrying backpacks, briefcases, bags. No one was checking on anything. This asshole was sitting right next to a piece of plate glass, closing his eyes and sipping his coffee, bobbing his head like a rock star.
“Why are you doing that?” Jenny asked.
“Doing what?”
“Banging your thumb against your knee. Are you thinking of a song, or are you nervous?”
He looked at his hand and stopped it. He shook his head.
Jenny touched his shoulder. “You okay?”
He shook his head again. After a moment she took her hand away, but that didn’t stop the way he felt. It swept across him like some kind of mist, this feeling of tingling confusion, as though the molecules in the air were suddenly alive, teeming, in dangerous, suppressive motion around him. There was nothing he could do.
He kept glancing over at Earbuds, drilling him with his eyes, and Earbuds, feeling his stare, glanced over once, then looked away. He took out a pair of sunglasses and put them on, then slid down on the seat, hunkering inside his big jacket, and turned his face to the window.
“Conrad,” Jenny said.
“What.”
“Why are you staring like that?”
Conrad turned to her. He could feel his chest, tight. Because he’s an asshole. Because he’s not fucking paying attention. Look at him. He’s one soft motherfucker, lazy and sloppy. He doesn’t understand anything.
He didn’t answer. None of this would sound right. It was all true, but it wouldn’t sound right. If he said it, he would sound like the asshole.
He said nothing and turned his head toward the front of the car, toward the passengers ahead. With his peripheral vision he was aware of Earbuds, who stayed hunched in his jacket, staring out the window, head bobbing. Every once in a while Conrad turned to look at him, masking his gesture with another, rubbing his chin or scratching his neck, but turning toward Earbuds. When he did, he could see Earbuds glance his way, using his own peripheral vision, noticing.
When the train pulled into Grand Central, everyone stood, reaching for bags and sweaters, collecting the detritus of the trip. Earbuds didn’t move. He stayed where he was, facing the window as if there were something important to see out on the platform. He didn’t want to stand and meet Conrad’s stare: this gave Conrad a jolt of satisfaction. At least the guy had gotten the message.
As Conrad reached up to grab the bags, Earbuds looked up at him over the frame of his sunglasses, his eyes darting nervously. It struck Conrad suddenly that the guy was actually alarmed. He’d frightened him. Conrad felt pleased: the guy should be afraid of him. The asshole. Earbuds turned, shifting to face more to the window, giving Conrad more of his back. Then Conrad’s satisfaction drained away; he felt a sudden twitch of self-disgust.
What was the matter with him? This was just some young guy, a kid, really, who’d gotten the message that a complete stranger would like to punch him out. For what, for getting on the train in his own town, listening to his own music? And what was Conrad doing, trying to eye-fuck someone who was minding his own business, listening privately to hip-hop?
You stupid fuck, thought Conrad. He felt enraged at himself, helpless. The worst was the helplessness.
He pulled the bags down from the rack. He and Jenny joined the line of
jostling passengers moving slowly toward the door. Everyone now was too close; everyone, in these last slow, gliding moments, was restless and impatient. In front of Conrad were two girls, twelve or thirteen, in bright tops and tight pants. The nearest one stood close to him, the back of her head in Conrad’s face. Her hair was in a ponytail.
Ponytail was talking loudly. Her friend had a narrow charcoal-colored face, fuzzy hair pulled back by a pink plastic hair band. They pushed each other, laughing. Ponytail fell back against Conrad, thudding against his chest. She didn’t apologize or even glance around as he recoiled. He drew away, but she moved with him. She kept collapsing against him, shouting with laughter. Each impact felt like a blow. The sudden thud of her body was like an electric shock.
He turned his shoulder so that the duffel bag was between them. Ponytail went on chattering, but her friend looked up at him and got it. She whispered to Ponytail, who turned to look at him. He stared at them. They put their hands up to their faces, giggling, pursing their lips in private hysteria, holding on to each other for support.
Conrad looked straight ahead, frowning, willing the door to open. He felt caught in some way he didn’t understand.
When the door finally opened, he and Jenny shuffled slowly off the train at the tail end of the hurrying crowd. Footsteps echoed around them as they walked through the dank, cavernous space of the platform, then entered a more civilized hallway that led into the station itself.
In the great atrium, the painted domed ceiling soared over the hurrying crowds. The sounds rose, fragmented, into the space. This was a place Conrad knew well. He knew just how the constellations were laid out, knew the faint gold stars linked into liminal shapes of gods and heroes against a celestial blue. He knew how the classical past, silent and beautiful, was spread out above the streaming current of the present. Coming through the station, Conrad often used to stop to look at these starry heavens, tilting back his head to gaze up—he knew all the gods, all the heroes. But now he didn’t want to tilt back his head, to lose his bearings or let go of his hold on the world. Around him surged the crowd’s endless stream, face after face coming at him, all intent, determined, heading for the next destination. Everyone carrying something, briefcases, suitcases, handbags, duffel bags, shopping bags.
In the center of the echoing space, Jenny stopped and put out her hand for her bag.
“So, I’m heading up to the West Side,” she said. “You’re going up the East. You’re staying with Claire, right?”
“I guess so.”
“I mean, for the night?”
“I guess so. Things are kind of loose.”
“You can always come to my place,” Jenny said. “Anytime. You know the address. I’ll get you a key.”
“Thanks,” Conrad said.
“I mean, in the middle of the night, or whatever,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks. I’ve got your number in my cell.”
“Call me tomorrow.” She put her arms around him and pulled him tight against her shoulders. She leaned back and smiled at him, then turned away, the black question-mark earrings dangling from her glossy cap of hair. So cool, he thought again, marveling.
Conrad headed off through the station, down the long ramp toward the East Side lines. Of course Jenny would be dressing differently four years later. But it wasn’t just clothes: she had a whole new life—the job, the boyfriend—and the knowledge gave him a small thrum of anxiety. She was getting on with things, and where was he? Each intimation of change delivered this reminder: he’d missed a lot. How did you go about catching up? There was an empty space in his life, one that was filled for everyone here.
He made his way across the concourse. The crowd surged toward him like a deep stream, dividing and shifting but fluid and steady, moving easily ahead. Young girls with pouty mouths and long legs in cutoffs and flip-flops, brisk middle-aged women in khaki pants and floppy sun hats, gray-haired men in short-sleeved shirts, young, skinny guys in torn jeans and T-shirts—where were they all going on a Sunday afternoon with such speed and purpose?
He had a sense of the world hurtling past him the way these crowds hurtled past, this endless stream. What else had he missed? What had happened without him? Was it important? Could he even reenter this world? He felt as though he were watching from outside, with no idea how to get in. And also: Why did he have to fit into this world? Why didn’t all these people have to fit into his?
On the 6 line the subway car was nearly empty. Two Asian teenagers in jeans and sneakers stood talking to each other at the far end, a heavy black woman in a pink jogging suit sat reading a magazine, and a family of European tourists, slight and anxious, stood around a pole, the father holding a map of New York and frowning. The train rattled uptown to Seventy-seventh, where Conrad got off. He jogged up the dank stone staircase to the street, heading toward First Avenue.
The view was framed by the brownstones and the small city-stunned trees that lined the street. One house was entirely blocked off for construction, its five-story face covered with scaffolding. This was New York’s endless cycle of renewal, this iteration at the hands of a billionaire. The whole building was being gutted. A two-story-high platform was staged over the sidewalk, creating an alarming metal tunnel for pedestrians. Conrad stepped off the sidewalk to go around it; going under it made him nervous. Ahead of him was an elderly man in a sweater. He was walking unbearably slowly, each step an agonizing osteoarthritic stutter. Go on, Conrad thought. Go the fuck on. Conrad made a wider detour, skirting him as well as the scaffolding, walking out into the middle of the street. He just wanted to get on with things, get on with them.
Farther east the white-brick apartment buildings of First and Second avenues rose in tiers against the sky. The futurist dream of 1950s architecture, it hadn’t aged well. The white walls were stained and grimy, discoloration spreading stealthily across the bricks in continent-size patches. The stepped terraces were all empty and untended. No one, it turned out, actually wanted to sit outside on gritty furniture on a narrow, low-ceilinged, windy, noisy, sooty platform.
He thought of these buildings, how they must have been when they were new, in the postwar dream of rising wealth and plenty. People had come flooding here after the war; they’d come from around the world. America was the success story then, rich, powerful, generous. Everyone wanted their children to grow up American. All of Europe had tried to get in: the country had had to change the immigration policy because so many people wanted to become American. This was the land of plenty, with its spotless white towers rising toward the sky.
Now the white bricks were dull, and the rows of bare, small windows looked mean. The neighborhood was anything but trendy, full of frugal young singles, impecunious families, and the elderly. First Avenue was bustling, even on a Sunday afternoon. This was a residential community: a supermarket, a drugstore, an Italian restaurant. On the corner of Claire’s building was a bank.
The crowds were polyglot, though mostly white. The younger people were walking fast, with that rapid, commanding New York pace. An old woman headed toward Conrad, her thin hair ruffed up in a white crown. She was leaning heavily on a cane, though she had not given in to age: she was wearing bright lipstick and big sunglasses, a sleek jacket and pants. She met Conrad’s gaze boldly, shuffling quickly along, ignoring the faster traffic that flowed around her, doing her best to keep up. It was all she could do, he thought: wear lipstick and bright clothes, try to keep up. All aging offered was that slow, unfair struggle. You could never win, you could only show your spirit as age won. He wondered what would happen to his mother if his father died. He couldn’t imagine her like this woman. Old. He couldn’t imagine his parents as anything but what they were now, forceful, healthy, in the middle of their lives.
Caught by the woman’s challenging stare, he nodded at her. Go for it, he thought.
A tall young blond woman in yoga pants and a stretchy T-shirt moved past her, twisting to avoid collision, her eyes fixed straigh
t ahead, as though the old woman were invisible. A fine electronic cord snaked up to her ear and she was talking earnestly into the air.
“I told her that,” she said loudly. “I told her that.” She nodded. “I told her I did not respect her position. Like she knows what a position is.” She ignored Conrad, ignored the people around her, looking ahead as though she were alone.
When had everyone, everyone on the street, started talking on cell phones? And they said anything, the most private and personal stuff, loudly, in front of strangers. It was insulting, really, a declaration that no one around you had any significance. In the military, you took other people seriously. You weren’t allowed to walk and talk on a cell phone. He imagined talking on a cell phone and walking past a superior officer: he’d be fucking torn apart.
Claire’s building fronted on the avenue. The narrow foyer was separated from the lobby by a locked glass door. Conrad found Claire’s name on a long row of dingy white placards and pushed the buzzer. A voice crackled shrilly over the intercom: Conrad? He shouted yes and was buzzed into the low-ceilinged lobby. It was empty: a scuffed black-tiled floor, dull gold ceiling, dim mirrored walls with marbled veins. Along one wall was a shelf full of leafy green plants, probably fake.
The elevator was slow and uncertain, finally lurching to a stop on twelve, where Conrad got off. The long hallway was wallpapered in a dim reddish print and carpeted in bright synthetic blue. The trapped air was stale and cloying. Claire’s door was halfway down the hall. Conrad raised his hand to press the fat mirrored button to ring the bell, but before he touched it, the door opened.
There was Claire, standing in the doorway, waiting for him, and he felt something in himself lift. Her head was slightly tilted, a tentative smile on her face. The smile pierced him, its hesitancy. Was this how he made her feel?
“Hi,” he said, now awkward.
Sparta Page 14
