Mr. Walker raised his hand to the waiter and asked him to crack Mrs. Walker’s lobster or take it to the kitchen for someone to handle it. The poor guy looked really confused at first, then shrugged his shoulders and carted it away. I sat there clutching my finger in my lap, wishing I had the courage to send mine away too. Her lobster returned a few minutes later beautifully splayed out on her plate. Mine still stared at me. I was so jealous, but determined, once the bleeding stopped. Two bites and I tackled it in earnest. Lobster is yummy.
During the Great Lobster Fight, I simply listened to the conversation. And after a few bites, I identified with Jane Bennet’s generous side; she never says a cross word about anyone. I even started a conversation with Mrs. Walker.
“Do you enjoy visiting Chicago? Are the museums to your liking? Have you seen the new exhibit at the Institute?”
Ashley tossed me a wry smile. She knew where I’d gone. Part of me felt exposed, but mostly I felt understood.
That’s when I realized how unfair I’ve been about her. Ashley’s not an Emma. Emma would have grabbed her pliers, picked up the dainty fork in her other hand, and widened her eyes at Harriet in a significant manner. Such a look would not only instruct Harriet on what to do, but make Emma’s superiority as clear as Harriet’s cluelessness. The look, furthermore, would not be skilled enough to hide Emma’s delight in the situation and in her role as tutor.
Ashley never did that—any of it. She’s as pretty as Gwyneth Paltrow was in the movie, but she isn’t Emma. Her assurance and confidence have limits, and I saw them tonight. That makes Ashley approachable—maybe real friend material.
It was good, Mr. Knightley. I’m glad to have my First Impressions reversed. Let’s hope I can do the same with Johnson.
Off to revise another
assignment . . .
Sam
P.S. There’s more . . . and avoiding it won’t make it go away: Kyle fostered out, and I miss him.
I’m happy for him, don’t get me wrong. This is no place to grow up. But I’ve gotten used to Kyle and he’s gotten used to me. I don’t think either of us would admit we’re friends, but we’re something. We rely on each other, I think. I went to Buckhorn on his last morning to give him my duffel bag.
“It’s yours. I don’t want that.” He shoved it back into my hands.
“Come on. It’s better than trash bags.” I started folding his shirts to put them in the duffel, but he kept messing them up. “Stop that. I’m helping you.”
“Don’t do that.” He grabbed another and bunched it up.
I understood. No reminders of help. No reminders of friends lost. I grabbed all the shirts, scrunched them up, and tossed them to him. I thought he’d laugh. He didn’t.
“Who you gonna run with now?” Kyle’s voice broke, and so did my heart. All this meant something to him too.
“Jaden,” I threw out. I couldn’t bear to get emotional.
“Jaden? He can’t run!”
“I’m just kidding. I’ll run alone. No one can replace you, Kyle. But I’m glad you’re going. You’ve got a family now.”
“You give me two months?” Kyle refused to look at me. That alone meant the answer mattered. Books are much easier than this real-life vulnerability.
“Don’t think that way. You could make all the way to eighteen.” I wanted to reassure him and give him that elusive guarantee. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman will love you. And I’m always around.”
Kyle stood still and blinked a couple times. He whispered, “Thanks, Sam.”
I pulled him into a hug and he grabbed on tight. It was the first physical contact we’ve had since he shoved my hand away on our second run. It lasted a heartbeat before he pushed me away and swiped his eyes.
“Gotta go, Sam. E-mail me. If they don’t have a computer, I’ll check at school. Every day, you hear?”
“Every day. I promise.” Every day? I almost made some quip about that being more than we’ve talked—ever. But I kept silent. You don’t make fun of vulnerability. It’s too rare.
I was reminded again of Hannah’s comments. Maybe all my quips and characters are cowardice—ways to avoid feeling and standing and being me. I didn’t want to withdraw at that moment; I owed Kyle more than that. So I forced a pathetically watery smile and watched as he hoisted the duffel, walked out the door, and met the Hoffmans standing in the courtyard with Father John.
So I have a new friend, Mr. Knightley, and I may have lost one too. They couldn’t be more different, could they?
“There are just a lot of different sides to me . . .”
NOVEMBER 4
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I can’t go back to Medill. I’ll get my apartment back and I’ll work at the library. The library shifts always end in daylight. And Starbucks is only a block from my apartment. They’d probably take me back. Because I won’t go back to Medill. I can’t take the ‘L’ again.
At first I didn’t think anything of the commute. I ride the ‘L’ late at night all the time. Evanston is safe, and Grace House is only a few blocks from the stop downtown. There are always people milling around. I’ve never felt the slightest bit afraid. These are my neighborhoods. I’ve lived in Chicago all my life.
I heard the footsteps. But there are always footsteps. People are everywhere. It wasn’t until the first hit that I knew I was in danger.
I don’t know what he wanted. He didn’t take my bag. He didn’t ask for money. He just kept hitting me—and hitting me. I tried to get up, twice, but he looped back. He went about ten feet away then circled back to hit me again. He was swinging a bar or a bat or something—over and over.
Then I heard yelling. Someone must have scared him away, because the hitting stopped. Not the pain.
Father John came to the hospital. So did the police. They kept asking the same questions: “What did he look like? What did he say? What did he do? What did he say? What was he wearing? What did he do? What did he look like?” Again and again . . . and again.
He was short. About my height, but that’s not tall for a man. Where I am thin, he was stocky. He wore a dark hoodie and had stubble. I remember his stubble. And I remember his hands around the bar. Mine are long. He had small hands with short fingers. Isn’t that odd? I noticed every detail about his hands. His thumbs were stumpy, and three fingernails were beaten black on his left hand. The right hand was scraped up, but the nails were intact. And they were dirty. Both hands were dirty. I remember the hands.
They kept me at the hospital overnight to watch me. I have a concussion and thirteen stitches along my right eyebrow. There’s some pretty good bruising too. My right forearm is pretty bad. I used it to shield my head, I guess. They also took X-rays to see if he fractured my jaw. He didn’t.
I’ve been trying to work up the courage to go back to class tomorrow, but I can’t do it. I barely made it to the library today, and it’s only a few blocks away. Ten in the morning, and the footsteps behind me paralyzed me. I couldn’t move until there was no one behind me. I ended up walking almost sideways, pressing my back against the buildings. It took me over an hour to walk six blocks.
And they didn’t find him, Mr. Knightley. He’s still out there. Was he behind me today? Is he near the ‘L’? Is he near Grace House? Does he wander the streets? I don’t have any answers. I don’t even remember his face.
Please get as much of your tuition back as you can. Again, I’m so sorry.
Sincerely,
Sam
NOVEMBER 6
Dear Ms. Moore,
Father John and Mr. Knightley agree that no time should be lost to make you feel safe. Nor should you sacrifice your program. As you know, Father John has secured an above-garage apartment for you at the home of Mr. and Mrs. David Conley on Lake Avenue, two blocks south of campus and within easy walking distance of downtown Evanston.
Mr. Knightley has extended your grant to cover the additional expenses such a move entails. You will not need to seek further employment during your tenur
e at Medill. Additionally, please find the enclosed check for $300. This money is to be used for cab fare to and from Northwestern University until your move this weekend.
Father John can provide further details. Additionally, please contact me if any of these arrangements fail to meet your expectations.
Sincerely,
Laura Temper
Personal Assistant to
Mr. G. Knightley
NOVEMBER 9
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Thank you. I don’t understand this kind of generosity, but I thank you—you and Father John. It’s a little overwhelming, to be honest. I questioned Father John about it.
“This doesn’t make sense. I don’t need to get a job? This is costing that foundation a fortune. What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one. Consider it grace—a gift unwarranted and undeserved.”
“Everything comes with a price, Father John.”
“Not everything, Sam. Not always. The foundation’s director has never extracted a price before, never even accepted thanks. Your personal letters are the most he’s ever become involved.”
“You don’t know him?”
“I feel I do, but, no, I’ve never met him.”
“Then I’m coming after you if this turns weird.” I raised my eyebrows. I was both making a joke and letting Father John glimpse my skepticism. It didn’t work—moving the right eyebrow made me flinch and simply reminded me why you and Father John are doing this—and how much I need it.
Father John caught it all and smiled at me. “Don’t fret. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Thank you.”
That was a couple days ago, and now I’m packed, just some clothes and a whole bunch of books. I move tomorrow morning. And I attended classes these last three days. Thank you for the cab money. I have savings and could have paid for it myself, but I didn’t think of it. Your foundation’s check reminded me that I have options. I’m not a total victim, despite how I feel. Thank you for that too.
I said good-bye to my Buckhorn Boys this afternoon. I think most felt relief that I won’t tutor anymore. I’ve been a more regular academic influence than most of their teachers. Only Jaden, I think, might miss me.
“Sam, I only got to division. There’s lots of math left.”
“You’ll be fine, Jaden. You’ve got a sharp mind. Keep at it.” I hugged him. I hugged all of them, whether they wanted it or not.
Hannah laughed at me. “Is that more hugging than you’ve ever done in your life?”
She meant it as a joke, but it stopped me cold. I don’t like hugs. I don’t like physical contact much. I have few childhood memories of it being gentle.
Hannah looked horrified by her comment. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I didn’t think.”
“No. It’s okay. I guess it’s a disadvantage to be so guarded. You miss out, don’t you?” Maybe I’m more like Jane Bennet than I thought . . .
Hannah pulled me back. “Wait here, I’ve got something for you.” She ran to the office. When she returned, I plastered on a quick smile.
“I hope you like it.” She handed me a small, wrapped package.
I tore the paper and found a soft blue leather journal with beautiful, thickly-lined pages. At the top of every few pages was a quote by Jane Austen. I flipped through and found my all-time favorite: I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. Mr. Darcy spoke those immortal words in answer to Lizzy’s question about falling in love with her. I sighed and showed Hannah the page.
“I don’t know the book like you do, but those are the best words ever.” She sighed too.
“Does Matt say such things to you?”
“He’s not that eloquent, Sam. But I can tell he feels them. Someday you’ll have that. And knowing you, you’ll hold out for that one guy who not only feels them, but can say them.” She gave me a tight hug. And I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t think it’d be so hard to leave, Mr. Knightley. Maybe the Great Beat-down (humor keeps fear at bay) made me more emotional, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because this time I know it’s permanent. There’s no turning back. Grace House has been good to me: “I have lived in it a full and delightful life, momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified . . .” Lately Jane Eyre’s melancholy and complex emotions resonate strongly within me.
It’s my last night here and, in many ways, I feel the same apprehension Jane felt before her marriage to Mr. Rochester. She had nothing to fear—she didn’t yet know about the crazy wife in the attic. But like Jane, I too “look with foreboding to my dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.”
Always ready for dread, but
hoping for adored . . .
Sam
NOVEMBER 10
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You must know what I’m typing on. Thank you so much. I’m still trying to process all this. I am completely stunned and need to start at the beginning. You may need to write me a letter, Mr. Knightley. Why did you do all this? And that’s only my first question . . .
I arrived here late this morning. I thought I’d feel so free and independent embarking on this journey, but I felt small and scared. More mouse than lion. By the time I reached the Conleys’ house, I was bug-eyed.
Have you ever seen the homes along the lake north of Chicago? They are huge and lovely. The lawns are deep green and manicured like golf courses. The Conleys’ house is no exception. Mrs. Conley met me at her door and walked me around to the garage. She said they built the apartment last year for her husband’s mother, but she’s not ready to move in yet.
“This is an adventure for us. We hadn’t thought to rent it until Father John called. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m so appreciative.” I felt stiff, and my words came out stilted. Everything is more formal when you’re nervous—at least for me.
She left me at the stairs to see it alone. “Call me up when you’re ready. That way you can see it for the first time without feeling like you have to compliment it. You may not like it.”
I loved it at first sight. It has hardwood floors, a bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen that opens onto the living room. Huge windows let in the dappled sunlight and made a dance of light and shadow across the floors. It’s perfect and it’s mine. And it’s yellow. The way pale yellow should look, like sunshine and butter, mixed with hope and cream. I watched the light shine through the bright clean windows and my mind flashed back to that first apartment with Cara. That place scared me, made me feel hopeless; this one invited me in, soothed and healed—all with light and super-clean white trim.
And the furnishings are comfortable with a hint at bold. Exactly how I want to be. The bedroom has a queen bed with a wooden frame and headboard, a huge dresser, and two wooden bedside tables. And there’s a big fluffy armchair with flowers embroidered in the fabric. The living room has a red-and white-striped couch with huge pillows featuring embroidered sunflowers. I’ve also got a big desk in front of the bay window and a small table with two chairs over by the kitchenette. And there’s a huge television on the wall—my very own TV.
I called to Mrs. Conley, and she came up and started going through everything with me, as if I had the power to complain.
“Father John wanted you to have everything you need, so the apartment now has wireless, and I got you digital cable with DVR. I don’t know if you watch much TV, but I figured that was good. There are fresh sheets on the bed and towels and spare sheets in the bathroom closet. The washer and dryer are stacked in the kitchen pantry.” She walked around the living room pointing to different doors and areas.
“And your foundation sent a computer and printer. They’re on the bookshelf over there. The printer is wireless. I’ve been begging David for one of those, so you’ll have to tell me if it works. Is there anything I forgot?”
> Dazed, I stumbled on the only detail that stuck. “Did you say computer?”
“It’s this laptop.” She pulled down a sleek laptop from the bookshelf. “Are you sure I haven’t forgotten anything?”
“I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” My brain felt fuzzy.
I think I seemed eerily calm and uninterested. Really it was shock. I wanted to know more, so I probed a little.
“Who arranged all this?” I asked.
“Well, Father John contacted us first, but then a Ms. Temper handled the details. Does she manage your foundation?”
“They gave me a grant and they pay the rent, but I don’t know them. Do you know anything about them?”
“No, but we’ve known Father John for years. How do you know him?”
This is why you don’t probe, Mr. Knightley. The turn-around can bite you.
“I’ve known him for years too,” I answered vaguely. Fearing more questions, I floundered for a distraction. Through the window I saw a swing set in the yard. “Do you have kids?”
Mrs. Conley smiled. “Four, and they’re dying to meet you. Parker is oldest at fifteen. Then comes Henry. He’s thirteen. Isabella’s almost twelve, and James is four. They’ll be home later and will probably run straight this way. This is very exciting for them. Do you have siblings?”
“I’m an only child, but I’ve been around kids my whole life. Please tell them they are welcome to visit.”
She glanced at me again. I was screwing up. I felt a little like Catherine Morland arriving at Northanger Abbey, though this splendid apartment is anything but gothic.
Mrs. Conley took my pause in stride. I must have appeared to be struggling, because she tilted her head to one side and said, “I’ll leave you to settle in. You know, Sam, please don’t feel pressured to spend time with the kids or with us. You’re simply renting this apartment. You have no obligations.” She turned back at the door. “These UPS boxes arrived this morning.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 6
