Wanderlove - Rachel Blaufeld

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Moira. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. As I heard Johnny pull away from the curb, I felt every pedestrian stride by in a New York hurry.

  Moira didn’t want to come with me. She was a small-town girl, not even equipped for Hershey, the closest city to our small town in Pennsylvania, let alone Manhattan. I didn’t blame her for not picking up and leaving all she’d ever known for me. Even though we’d promised forever to each other.

  All the same, I tried not to think about her pushing me to leave, insisting I experience everything life had to offer, including other women.

  In the beginning, I’d waited for her to call and take back her insistence for me to fuck around, enjoy life’s riches, and then come back to her. When she didn’t, I started screwing my way through every weekend. It’s what she asked me to do. Then I’d come back to her, ready to settle down.

  Hey, I’m a twenty-three-year-old man, and I’m pretty certain she isn’t so innocent herself.

  Last I heard, Moira had been going out with the Anderson kid from the other side of town. His parents worked in corporate; he was a good catch, temporarily.

  This little adventure in New York didn’t take away my plan to go home, live where I always lived, and make a life on our farm, doing what my stepdad had done.

  Another horn blared, and I shoved any thoughts of Moira to the far back of my mind.

  With my hand no longer calloused from hard labor, I pushed the heavy door open and made my way toward class.

  Emerson

  My head hurt. It ached and pounded. And my mouth? Ugh, it felt like it was full of sawdust.

  “Ouch.” I brought my hands to my head and massaged my scalp, trying to stop the pain.

  Once I’d rolled out of bed, I stumbled to the bathroom, peed, and started the coffeemaker next to the toilet.

  Yes, you heard right. My coffeemaker is next to the toilet, wedged between the sink and the toilet tank. For the past couple of weeks, I’d been renting a tiny studio apartment in a building in Jamaica, Queens. Really, it wasn’t any more than a bedroom with a bath, that bathroom doubling as a kitchen. It wasn’t much, but I was making it work.

  When I first got here, I spent most of my money on cheap hotels, dead-end bullshit, and some stupid, no-name PI who probably wasn’t even legit. He hosed me—but what did I expect? I found him through a Google search.

  Oh, and my phone’s data plan was draining my reserves. I should have disconnected it . . . all it did was remind me of the pain I was causing my dad. Between his concerned texts and Robby’s checking in, I’d never felt so bitchy.

  This wasn’t me.

  By the middle of June, I finally had to admit I wasn’t getting anywhere, fast or slow, so I took the remaining money I had left and settled in Queens. The owner of a Bangladeshi restaurant took pity and hired me a few days during the week, and I bartended opposite nights in a swanky joint over in Astoria. It was the tale of a million cities to me, but it was better than wasting a college education.

  Oh, the final kicker: I put school in New Jersey on hold.

  My dad was never going to speak to me again. I’d let him know through text. Was there any other way?

  Since I got here, I’d started counting the minutes until Robby moved to New York. He was going to attend a pre-med program where he got a bachelor of science degree and worked toward a medical degree at the same time. It had like a 0.5 percent acceptance rate, and Robby was hot shit, so obviously, he got in. It helped he was from a Podunk beach town where hardly anyone ever escaped. That’s exactly why I’d hitched myself to his star.

  He was a good choice. A smart choice.

  Life in Sea Isle had been good, but I wanted something bigger. Clearly, serving Bangladeshi food that I couldn’t pronounce and slinging booze wasn’t it either, but it was my current status.

  My cell phone rang, and I strained my ears, trying to determine where it was. It rang a second time, and I realized it was in my back pocket.

  “Hello?” My voice came out still drunk and raspy.

  “What’s up, Em?” My name rolled off Robby’s tongue, laced with sugar, lining a warm white mocha.

  Thank God I paid the phone bill.

  “Um, I’m just waking up. Worked late last night.”

  I lowered the lid and plopped down on the toilet, watching the tiny raindrops of black coffee drip into the glass decanter. My eyes were trained on the Mr. Coffee logo as I listened to the same speech I’d heard from Robby last week.

  “I don’t know why you’re so insistent on that bar job. You could come home, make peace with your dad, and take a few credits in New York or wherever you want, be near me. I’m not saying go full-time in Jersey or anything . . . I just want to see you do right. So does your dad. You’d be the first one to go to college on your side of the family—”

  I blew out a loud breath and interrupted his monologue. “My mom went to college, so I’m not the first.”

  “She’s not your family, and you know it. This is some phase you’ve dragged everyone around you into. Your dad is busy at work, and I’m getting ready for the next ten years of my life. Can’t you see that? This is crazy. Your dad needs you.”

  The smell of the coffee was barely scraping the surface when it came to my headache.

  “I’m not making up with my dad right now. He pushed me into this, and now you two are best buddies. What’s up with that? I had this fight because of you, because of us. I left Sea Isle because he wanted us to act like prudes, and now you’re on his side. Honestly, I don’t get it.”

  I put the phone on mute and cleared the phlegm from my throat, not wanting to share any more weaknesses with the man—boy—who supposedly cared for me.

  “Babe, after the phone call we had a few nights ago, there’s no way you’re a prude. I don’t think your dad wants his face rubbed in it, that’s all. He’s just a dad, overprotective of his girl. And I think you’ll want a degree at the end of the day. It’s the respectable thing to do.”

  “Don’t,” I said sharply. “You talked me into the other night. With all you tell me what you want me to do, and this is a safe place, and I love you, blah, blah. Were you tricking me? Because, frankly, I don’t know who the hell you are.”

  Classic Robby. Always straddling the middle, he confused me. Whose side was he really on? Maybe I was wrong staying tied to him?

  “Emerson, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Don’t go all judgy on me, Robby. I’m going to find my way, maybe find my mom, ask her why the hell she didn’t want me, and then I can think about school. On my terms. As for making up with my dad, I don’t know. He’s so unhappy with me . . . like you are now, all of a sudden.” My head pounded with each word. “But until I figure shit out, I have to bartend and serve food. It’s the only kind of job I’m qualified for, and these people are nice, interesting, different, and not judgmental. I need that.”

  I scrunched my forehead during the tail end of what felt like a sermon. My head roared at me when I stood too quickly to grab my mug from the medicine cabinet. Finally, the sound of the hot liquid swishing around in the pot was almost as soothing as ibuprofen.

  “That’s not the way it has to be. I met with your dad the other day—”

  “Why? Christ, what is up with you and my dad?”

  “Because it’s the only way he knows you’re okay, Em, and he deserves that . . . don’t you think?”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to stabilize my mood. I told myself not to be upset with Robby. My intentions weren’t entirely genuine either.

  “You’re a good guy, Robby. I appreciate you taking care of my dad. But I’m fine. I have a few leads left, and I just want to put this whole thing to rest. Then I can move forward—you know, really grow up, lose my V-card to someone who cares, not worry about getting pregnant and ending up like my mom. God, you and my dad should have more respect for me. I did good in school, and I’ve not exactly been a fuck-up.”

  Robby sat there in silence, so I went on. “I
can’t believe I’m saying this all over the phone, and you’re ghosting me on the other end.”

  “Look, I get it, Em. I do. But we were all good the way we were. Yeah, I wanted more, but we were good, and I was happy to wait. But now you’re acting like a bitch.”

  “What did you just say? I’m super hung over, and I swear you just said I was the one acting like a bitch.”

  “I did.”

  “You know what? My dad was so worried that I’d become my mom, that he kept me from going all the way with you. Even though I already feared the worst happening. Yet, now you side with him. Don’t you want to be with me? You certainly aren’t acting that way.”

  Christ, I was all over the place emotionally. I started sweating, and alcohol oozed from my pores, filling the air with its putrid scent. Even though I was only eighteen, when we closed the bar, sometimes we had a few libations. It was fine. It wasn’t all the time, and our boss turned a blind eye.

  “Emerson, I think you need to go sleep this off and talk to me when you’re in a better mood.”

  “So, you don’t want to sleep with me anytime soon?”

  “Not like this. You say it like you’re some cheap two-bit whore. Don’t you want to make love like most girls your age? Think about that,” he said, and then hung up.

  No, I didn’t want to do most things like girls my age. I’d grown up dramatically different.

  Anyway, there goes that. Apparently, I’d been saving myself for a grade-A prime asshole.

  After turning over every clue I had so far on my mom, I accidentally struck gold in an upscale bakery on the Upper West Side. By chance, I’d gone in for a cookie and came out with the whole damn cake.

  Sweaty and tired, I went to the counter and ordered an iced mocha and a peanut butter and jelly cookie. I didn’t know what that was, but I wanted to try one—who knew when I would see a PB&J cookie again?

  A cool painting hung on the wall behind the counter. I squinted at the design, painted in slashes of blues and creams and greens, and realized it was an abstract of a coffee cup, steam swirling around it, then funneling into small crescent-shaped cookies.

  “I like the painting,” I said to the girl at the counter while I waited for my drink.

  She glanced back to see what I was looking at. “Oh, that? My mom’s friend did that . . . not that she wanted to, but we begged.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s good. Seems like there should be one in every bakery and coffee shop in town.”

  “Could’ve been, but the artist doesn’t paint anymore. She used to do these big, uppity, abstract things until depression hit big-time. She’s one of these upper-class, high-strung, everything-has-to-go-their-way types. Aack, I didn’t say that, ’kay?” She pushed an errant dark blond strand of hair behind her ear, her half-moon-shaped earring glinting in the light.

  “Your secret’s safe with me. I never met anyone like that, but I gotta imagine it’s a pain.”

  “Ha! It is. You got that right, but this is New York, so those types are everywhere. Anyway, the painting is fine. It’s only coffee and cookies.”

  “Too bad, I love it. For the first time since I left home, I actually miss it . . . the ocean air. Something about that painting makes me think of the little beach town I’m from. Maybe the colors, or the way the cookies are floating like clouds above the water.”

  “She was obsessed with the beach. Paula, the artist, I mean. She was forever going on and on about the sea and wanting to be near water.”

  She made eye contact with me, but I couldn’t focus on her. I didn’t know if it was the name she said or the weird itchy feeling on the back of my neck. It felt like a mosquito had gotten caught between my shirt and my neck. Oddly, the urge to get closer to the painting froze me for a second, like I was wearing ankle weights. I couldn’t or wouldn’t, but then my feet moved on their own, taking me toward the painting. I had to see it for myself.

  “You want your drink?” The bakery chick rounded the bar and set it at the end where I was leaning over the counter, trying to get a closer look at the painting.

  “Geez, do you want to come back here?” The girl poked my arm with her blue-painted fingernail.

  “What?”

  “Obsess much? Do you want to come back here? See it up close?”

  “Can I?”

  She lifted the counter and I slipped through, my gaze never leaving the swirling crescents.

  “I’m Bev, by the way, Bev Brantley. You an artist or something?” She leaned against the giant espresso machine.

  “No, but I like art. I’m supposed to be studying biology in the fall, but I’m not. I may take a gap year or whatever.”

  “Oh?” Bev raised an eyebrow at me. It popped over her navy-blue eyeglass frames, and I took a moment to study her. She must be around my age. Green eyes, dark blond hair tied tight in a bun, glasses, and long tanned legs. She looked like a misplaced beach bum, and for the briefest second, I ached for my dad.

  My gaze traveled back to the painting, and I reached out a finger to air-trace the first name of the artist’s signature—Paula. Then I blinked at the Dubois that followed it, fully convinced I was imagining it.

  “My mom’s friend Paula . . . they’ve known each other their whole lives. Except my mom married some broke musician from Brooklyn, and Paula got a fancy art degree and married up, if that’s what you call new money when you come from old money.” Bev waved a hand in the air. “Jeez, I don’t even know your name, and here I am rambling on and on.”

  “Emerson. It’s Emerson.”

  “Oh, cool name. Bev is so blah. Of course, my mom wanted to be a librarian a long time ago. She loved books . . . Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, and I forget the other one . . . Roald Dahl.” She snapped her fingers when the right name came to mind. “But she became a baker when my dad left on tour and never came back. Someone had to pay the bills. This is her shop. And that’s my life story.” She waved her hand like Miss America underneath the sign.

  Lucky Artist Bakery

  “She named it for all the artists who actually made it. The ones in the MOMA and performing at Carnegie Hall. My dad always thought it was about him, wishing him luck. Idiot. Thank God he’s long gone. Who the heck has patience for that?”

  I slipped out from behind the counter, picked up my drink, and took a sip, desperate for something to do with my hands. Otherwise, I’d grab the painting and run. Where? No clue.

  “My mom left us,” I said, my hip resting against the counter. I didn’t dare share that she might be the same Paula who grew up with Bev’s mom.

  Bev rolled her eyes, still leaning on the expensive machine. “Well, they suck. My dad and your mom.”

  I stared at this girl who had been dealt a shitty hand, just like me. How could she have it so together? I was falling apart at the seams, and she was the picture of togetherness, going on and on to me, some stranger, like it was no big deal.

  “I never really knew her. My dad’s a bit protective. I actually flew the coop this summer because I couldn’t take it anymore. All his rules. This is good, by the way,” I told her, lifting the drink in my hand.

  “Thanks. Sounds dreamy. Flying the coop, that is. My mom got the big BC.” Bev pointed at her chest. “Well, I couldn’t stand to leave. So I teach dance and work here, running things for her when she’s at chemo.”

  “I’ve been bartending and waitressing, doing okay, but I need to look for something more permanent.”

  “Hey, that’s about as permanent as you’re going to get in this town without a fancy diploma. And even then, it may be your best bet. Where you from?”

  “Sea Isle City, New Jersey. Beach town. I guess you could say I’m a small-town girl. That was the appeal of your shop. Had a homey feel to it.”

  “My mom will be so glad to hear you said that.”

  “So, the painting. You have more?” I tilted my head toward the only connection I’d ever had with my mother.

  Bev shook her head. “No. Paula did this one as a favor
to my mom, when she still went by her maiden name. Later, she named herself something fancier—Paula Phillip. But, really, she mostly curated for the museum and then she got into teaching. In the big leagues, not elementary art or anything like that, but at the college, you know what I mean? Last I heard, she was on an extended sabbatical. I don’t know what for or what she was doing. She and my mom were fighting a lot over the last few years, but my mom wouldn’t tell me over what either. Pretty much, I run the bakery and dance . . . and mind my own business.”

  “I’m sure your mom didn’t want to trouble you. That’s how my dad is.”

  “Prob,” she said, turning her gaze toward the door and the bells chiming as it opened.

  “I guess you’ve got to go,” I said.

  My pulse quickened at the thought of googling my mom again. I wasn’t sure why her art never came up, though. Maybe because she had a new name?

  As I turned away, I said, “Hey, you said Paula married up. She still married?”

  Bev looked at me, her brow wrinkling in confusion. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t know what happened. She hitched herself to some high-society prick, and it pretty much changed her for the worse. My mom never felt the same about her—it’s really sad. I always guessed that’s why they fought. I think they lost touch.”

  I nodded like I understood this type of stuff.

  “Supposedly, a lot of shit went down,” Bev said with a shrug. “I guess they weren’t meant to be or something. And her work signed with her old name wasn’t worth what it should’ve been or whatever. Hence that painting on the wall.”

  I waved at Bev in thanks, and she grinned back and then took the orders from the couple who’d just walked in and were drooling over the bakery cases.

  Excited to have a new lead—a really good lead—I pulled out my phone. According to Google, Paula Phillip was a part-time art professor at a well-established college in the Village.

  Price