Love Stories in This Town

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  Caroline's was crowded and smoky. Kent held my arm as we wound our way to our seats. One table leg must have been shorter than the rest; the table kept tipping all around. I was tired before our drinks arrived. “So what did your husband do?” asked Kent. I thought this was a strange way to begin a date.

  “Lawyer,” I said.

  “My wife sold software,” said Kent.

  “Your wife?” I said.

  “Wendy,” said Kent. “She was on Flight 11.”

  “I didn't know,” I said. What did I want with some widower, I thought. “Jesus, I'm sorry,” I said. The waitress returned with our order. She was a bit sour, but I guess you don't have to be funny to serve the drinks.

  “Where was he?” asked Kent. “Your husband?”

  “The North Tower,” I said.

  His eyes were dull. “Wendy was in business class,” he said. I nodded. “Did he … did you talk to him?” asked Kent.

  “No,” I said. He nodded, and drank his martini quickly. We ordered another round.

  The first comedian had bad skin. He told a bunch of jokes about his mother, and then a bunch of jokes about how dumb Cajuns are. I had never met a Cajun, so these jokes were wasted on me. It seemed that Cajuns ate catfish sandwiches and kept alligators as pets. We sipped our drinks sadly, and after the first comedian had finished, I told Kent I was exhausted, went outside, and hailed a cab.

  Paul and I used to watch the news after work. One night, a reporter in a blue windbreaker stood in a Kansas parking lot, where a plane had just crashed. “If you were on a plane going down,” I said to my husband, “I would not want you to call me. I would rather remember all the good times. Not one last crummy phone call, you know?”

  “I don't know,” said Paul. “I might want you to call me.” “Well, don't call me,” I said. “I'm not interested.” In my memory, I say the words so blithely—I'm not interested. I was a different person, then.

  I think about Paul, trapped in the searing building. I did try his cell phone, but there was no answer. I know that he wanted to dial my number, to say good-bye. I know he didn't jump. Well, I don't officially know, but that's what I think. Maybe he fainted. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I am pretty sure it was. I wish he had called me. I wish I could say to him, I'm sorry. I wish he had taken a sick day. But his car was parked at the station when I finally got home from the city. There was his coffee mug. There was his napkin from his English muffin, marked with a butter stain.

  Kent called me at work the next morning. “I thought the comedy club would be a good idea,” he said, “but I guess maybe it wasn't.”

  “It was fine,” I said.

  “I'd like to see you again,” said Kent. This surprised me.

  “How about cheeseburgers?” I said.

  “How about cheeseburgers?” said Kent.

  He took the train out, and we went to the Rye Grille and Bar. “I've never been to Rye,” said Kent. “Scarsdale, yes, but not Rye.”

  “It's a nice place,” I said, though I had begun to wonder if it was the place for me, single and suburbs being a grim combination. When Jan came to take our order, she looked surprised to see me with a date, then angry, then sad.

  “What do you recommend?” Kent asked Jan.

  “Oh, get a cheeseburger,” I said. Paul and I always ordered cheeseburgers.

  “The tuna steak sandwich is good,” said Jan. She looked Kent up and down. He was cute in a preppy way: the tousled hair, ruddy skin. If you watched him, you could see how he'd looked at five, chasing after frogs or tadpoles with a little net.

  “The cheeseburgers are really the best,” I insisted.

  “I think I'll try the tuna steak sandwich,” said Kent. He looked at me with a smile, but he must have seen something in my face. He blinked, and I looked down at my menu. “Wait,” said Kent, reaching out and touching his fingers to Jan's arm. “I've changed my mind.”

  She wheeled around and raised an eyebrow.

  “I'll have the cheeseburger after all,” said Kent.

  “You might even want to try the fried onions on top,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Kent, “okay.”

  The following Saturday, Kent asked me to go antiquing with him in Connecticut. “There's a great diner in Roxbury,” he said, “and then we can go for a hike along this lake.” I preferred to spend my Saturdays lying on the lawn and staring at the overgrown patch where I had once tended a garden, but I agreed. Kent brought a pair of ladies' hiking boots. They fit me perfectly, and this seemed to make Kent very happy. I wore my own socks, however. We drove up to Connecticut in Kent's Volvo station wagon. He played tapes of Nina Simone and held my hand when he was not shifting the gears. “I packed a picnic lunch,” he confided. “Pate and grapes and even that pinot noir.”

  “What pinot noir?” I said.

  He looked flustered. “Oh, you'll like it,” he said. He squeezed my fingers.

  The scenery grew beautiful. Barns and cows and men selling peaches. Kent pulled into the parking lot of an antique store called Mason's. He opened my door and took my hand. “Come on,” he said, “I have a surprise for you.”

  I followed Kent into Mason's. It was a dusty old store filled with junk. Lots of nautical-themed stuff, and a bunch of that Fiestaware. Kent hustled me toward the back, and I pretended to be interested in some old cough medicine bottles. There was music in the store, Billie Holiday. I liked that.

  It wasn't long before Kent came back. “It's all arranged,” he said, his eyes shining. He took my hand, and led me into a back room. Once there, he gestured to a huge mirror. It was surrounded by an ornate frame. It was unwieldy and ugly.

  “Sweetheart,” said Kent, “it's yours.”

  “The mirror?” I said.

  He nodded, tears in his hazel eyes.

  “Oh, Kent,” I said, “it's just what I've always wanted.”

  “I know,” said Kent. He took me in his arms, and whispered, “Sweetheart, I know.” After this exchange, we went to a lakeside spot and ate the pate and drank the pinot noir. Kent did not kiss me.

  My mother came over the next day. “What on earth is that?” she said, pointing to the mirror, which was propped up in the front hallway.

  “A mirror,” I said. “Kent gave it to me.”

  “My God,” she said. “It's hideous.”

  “Well, okay,” I said.

  “What are you making?”

  “Beef Stroganoff.”

  “Oh sweetie,” said my mother. I stirred the pot, and added salt.

  “Would you like some pinot noir?” I asked my mother.

  “I only drink pinot grigio and you know it.”

  “People can change,” I said.

  “Did you hear about the femur?” said my mother.

  “Oh God,” I said. I closed my eyes. “You know what?” I said. “I don't want to hear about any femur.”

  “This isn't any femur, Casey,” said my mother. “It's Doug Greenberg's femur.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. I had once given Doug a blow job in the back of his father's Porsche.

  My mother shook her head. “Tragic,” she said, “just tragic. But they're burying theirs, not putting it on the mantel.”

  I kept stirring. “That smell,” said my mother. “That smell makes me think of your father.”

  “Really?”

  “He used to love beef Stroganoff. Don't you remember? He'd call from the station and say, ‘Is dinner ready?’ and I'd say, ‘Yes, dear,’ and I'd pack you and your sister in the Oldsmobile and we'd go get your daddy. I'd put you to bed while he had his cocktails and watched the news, and then we'd eat together.” The light coming in the kitchen window made my mother's face glow. “That was a good time,” she said.

  “I used to make it for Paul,” I said. “I never knew why.”

  She smiled at me. “This is just a bad time, honey,” she said. “But then it will be a good time again.”

  “What if it's just going to get worse?” I said.

  Sh
e looked down at her Gucci pumps. She opened her hands and then pulled them into fists.

  That night, after eating three helpings of my beef Stroganoff, Kent asked if he could sleep over, and I said yes. I gave him a pair of Paul's pajamas, and of course Paul's toiletries were all still lined up in the cabinet. Kent was bigger than Paul, so he just wore the pajama shirt and his boxers. He smelled all wrong with the right toothpaste.

  My new therapist was not pleased with the news of my budding romance. “What is Kent like?” she asked me.

  “He bought me a mirror,” I said.

  She pursed her lips. “A mirror,” said Alexa.

  “Yes,” I said, “a mirror.”

  She stared at me for a while, waiting for me to say something more. “It's kind of big,” I said.

  “Kind of big,” said Alexa.

  “Yes,” I said. “Kind of big and urn, dusty. Tarnished.”

  “Tarnished,” said Alexa.

  “But I like it,” I said. “There's nothing wrong with it. I look in the mirror and I feel better.”

  “Feeling better does not always mean feeling healthier,” said Alexa. I told her I would keep that in mind.

  My sister disagreed. “You need love,” she told me, as we got pedicures at Nails of America. “We all need love,” said Jennifer, and then she began weeping. She was speaking so softly that I had to lean in close to hear her. “It's the hormones,” she whispered.

  Kent's apartment was cluttered, filled with books. Wendy, it turned out, had been a software salesperson who wanted to be a poet. I was never much for poetry—I liked diving into long, lusty novels—but Kent handed me Robert Frost, and rested his head on my lap while I read.

  Some nights, I paged though Microsoft Word printouts on Kent's couch, hoping to find the next Graham Greene, and Kent made elaborate ethnic meals (Indian, Thai, Ethiopian). Wendy had always made the injera bread, and I couldn't get the hang of it, so I found a restaurant on Amsterdam and I just picked it up on my way over. Her shoes fit me, which was a bonus, as Wendy had very good taste in shoes. I began jazzing up my outfits with her Fendi heels and Sigerson Morrison slingbacks.

  I was there, at Kent's apartment, that Saturday morning. The plan was to have breakfast at Cafe Con Leche and then head to the Hayden Planetarium, one of Kent's childhood haunts. Kent had once sat through three star shows in a row. He loved the way the sky changed. I was surprised he could still look up.

  Wendy had not liked coffee, so I usually brought instant in my purse. I was boiling water when the buzzer rang. I pressed the intercom button. It was the NYPD, said a nice-sounding man. Oh, shit, I thought. What I do not need is Wendy's femur hanging around.

  “Kent?” I said. “It's the NYPD.”

  Kent came out of the bedroom, pulling on a pair of Paul's sweatpants. “Let them in,” said Kent quietly.

  I am not a stupid woman. I know that Paul was at work on September 11th. He kissed me, caught the train on time. He was at his desk, because he was the sort of man who woke each morning and went where he was supposed to go. Paul was dead. Unless he drove his car to the station, took the train to the plane, and flew to Vegas.

  Kent appeared to be having trouble breathing. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, then straightened. He rolled his head to one side and then the other. “Oh God,” said Kent, “oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” His face was pale: we both knew what was coming. We had two minutes, maybe three, while the cops rode the elevator up and made their way to the apartment door.

  “Kent,” I said. “Kent, I have something very important to tell you.”

  “What?” said Kent. “What is it?” Paul's sweatpants were too short for Kent. Half of his shins showed, and his ankles were not elegant, as Paul's had been.

  I felt sick. I took Kent's hand. “If anything happens to you,” I said, “I want you to call me. Please, please call me.” “I will,” said Kent, “of course I will, I promise.” “I mean it,” I said. “I was wrong about Kansas.” I was crying, it seemed. Kent pulled me to him. His heart was hammering against his ribs. I heard footsteps in the hallway, coming toward us. “I'll call you,” said Kent. His breaths were short. “I will. But there's something you should know.” There was a knock at the door, a sharp, professional rap. There was shuffling, a clearing of a throat.

  “I'll call you, but it won't make any difference,” said Kent. “It's all the fucking same, in the end.”

  He let me go abruptly, and then he unlocked the door and opened it. “Mr. Kent Hornbeck?” said the cop. He was an older man, with lines in his face. His eyes were sympathetic and tired.

  “Yes,” said Kent.

  “May we come in?” said the cop.

  Kent looked at me. I closed my eyes. Paul, a Vegas showgirl on his lap. Wendy, writing poetry, snacking on injera bread. I opened my eyes, and Kent was looking into them. We both knew it was time to find out what remained.

  Miss Montana's Wedding Day

  The man Lola loved wasn't marrying her, and she didn't know what to wear to the wedding. For one thing, it was cold in Montana. That ruled out the scorned redhead in a silk dress idea. Also, she would have to wear boots; it had been snowing for weeks. The sun was up, but it was still dark, a gray day. They called it “the inversion,” the way wood smoke, soot, and fog hovered over the Missoula valley. You could escape it if you climbed Jumbo or Mount Sentinel— from above, the inversion was a luxuriant cloud.

  Lola's windowsill was lined with empty wine bottles. Past the bottles, the tops of the mountains were white with new snow. A darkness filled Lola, and she tried to focus on small, good things. She could eat pizza for breakfast, if she wanted. It was warm in her bed. Chocolate. Her heart was broken, and she honestly felt that way—broken. Her stomach, her head, her arms hurt. It was awful, and worse, it was futile.

  What did it say about Lola that she had fallen in love with a man who would leave her for Miss Montana? That she had spent almost a year visiting his cheap Rattlesnake rental, pretending to enjoy baked beans dumped on spaghetti, kissing him even when he forgot (in the throes of academic inspiration) to brush his teeth?

  It had happened so fast. Lola went home to New York for Christmas vacation, and when she returned, Iain had already met Miss Montana at a Tuesday night showing of The Blair Witch Project, shared a few pitchers of beer with her afterward, and ended up in her bed. “It was as if I was possessed. It was, in a word, inevitable,” Iain told Lola, with a pained-but-smug expression.

  “True love, I guess,” Lola said, starting to cry.

  Iain said nothing, but nodded. A wedding invitation arrived a few weeks later, with a scribbled note in an unfamiliar hand: We sincerely hope you can attend.

  Jeans were out. Lola would look as if she were trying to look as if she didn't care. And all she had for fancy was her Rye High School prom dress in salmon pink. (“Wonderful Tonight”? Not for Lola, who spent the whole evening looking for her date, Josh, eventually located passed out in a janitor's closet.) Every item of clothing made Lola think of Iain: the green teddy he had bought her for St. Patrick's Day, the tight Carhartts he liked her in, the skirts he'd whistle at when he saw her across the quad. What use were they? He was marrying Miss Montana.

  Iain. The fine arc of his nose, the ticklish beard, blue eyes almost disconcertingly light. His hands on Lola's hips, his mouth on her mouth. Iain's dissertation in progress was called “Tragedy in Shakespeare's Othello: Fate or Feckless-ness?” He seemed to relish correcting people about the extra “I” in his name.

  Lola brushed her long, red hair. In the mirror above her bureau, she looked tired. She was twenty-one, and knew that she should feel her life beginning to flower. Instead, she felt wilted, a Walgreens bouquet. On the other hand, Miss Montana was blooming with Iain's child. He had told Lola, and then dropped her off at her dorm. “I'll never forget you,” he added, before pulling away.

  In the spring, Lola would finish her junior year at the University of Montana. She was a communications major, which was ironic,
because she spoke primarily to a bartender named Cal and her mother. She was a straight-A student, and had won a student internship at the local paper, the Missoulian, covering the crime beat.

  When she got the letter from Win Johnson, the Lifestyles Editor and Intern Coordinator, Lola had run to Iain's office on campus, interrupting a conference with a freshman by throwing open Iain's door, holding the letter out with both hands, and shaking it, singing, “I got the in-tern-ship, I got the in-tern-ship …,” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.”

  Lola thought she would never return to her mother's house in New York, but as it turned out, she was not going to spend the summer in blissful cohabitation. She would not be putting her books next to Iain's on the shelves, her mayonnaise alongside his ketchup in the refrigerator. The two-week backcountry trip? The advance tickets for the Barry Lopez reading in August? The early-morning yoga class, the kayak for two, the favorite table at Food for Thought, the champagne saved for their one-year anniversary? All of it was worthless.

  In addition, the cop beat was depressing—domestic violence, DUIs, marijuana grow labs. When Lola rushed to the scene of a woman stabbed outside the Desperado Sports Tavern, her new notebook in hand, the cop took one look at her and said, “Are you fucking kidding me? They're letting high school kids cover this shit?”

  Lola had packed Iain's things (shirts, books, casserole dish) and mailed them to the house Miss Montana had bought with her winnings. The house was a half-minute walk away, but Lola felt a sense of closure about taping shut a box. She had even sent it first class, telling the man at Mail Boxes Etc. that it was her ex-lover's belongings. The man was Native American, and a long braid hung over his maroon Mail Boxes Etc. smock.

  “You could have burned these things,” said the man. “He is lucky.” The man reminded Lola of Paulson, the dark-haired bartender at Ye Olde Maple Tree Inn, where Lola had gone to find her father on the nights he didn't come home in time for dinner.