And Sometimes Why

by Rebecca Johnson

  Two nights later, she snuck out the back door while her parents slept. Bobby picked her up on his motorcycle in front of Roy’s old house. She tried not to dwell on the significance of that. In a gesture of loyalty, she and her friend Anya had stolen the For Sale sign out of the front yard the night before. She noticed a new one had already replaced it. This time, she and Bobby went to his place, the small back house of a ranch-style home three blocks from the beach. In his tiny bedroom, with its acoustic tile ceiling, stained carpet, and smell of unwashed clothing, she took a deep breath and lay back, letting him do whatever he wanted. The next morning, as the sun was rising, he dropped her a block from her house. She walked the rest of the way home barefoot, dangling her sandals from two fingers and paying close attention to every thing about the morning—the pht, pht of the automatic sprinklers, the water on the sidewalk, her wet footprints on the concrete, the tangerine light of dawn—she wanted to remember it all.

  For the next few weeks, she hoarded the plea sure of her secret, making excuses to her friends and lying to her parents about where she went at night. She’d only told Miranda about Bobby after running into her early one morning in the bathroom. “Nice pajamas,” Miranda had said. Two nights later, Miranda came to see a show. Afterward, Helen asked her what she thought.

  “Sexy,” she’d said, and nodded, then narrowed her eyes. “But skeevy, too. You know?”

  “Mmmm.” Helen nodded, hiding her hurt.

  After that, she would sit alone at a front table, nodding her head to the beat which, truth be told, was sometimes hard to find—even she could tell Bobby wasn’t much of a bass player. Occasionally, there would be some trouble with club owners wanting to see some ID or guys hitting on her but she learned to say, “I’m with the band,” without rolling her eyes.

  Everything changed when Forrester, the lead singer, announced he was joining the navy. The remaining band members placed an ad in Variety looking for a replacement, but it seemed like every person they auditioned was worse than the next. When they did find someone who seemed promising, the candidate would inevitably turn them down. “That hurt,” Bobby said to Helen of the rejection, pounding the spot on his chest where his heart lay beating.

  To supplement his income, Bobby had always taken the occasional house-painting job. With the band gone, now it was all he did. Helen would look at his brown hair speckled with white latex paint at night and think, That’s how he’ll look when he has gray hair, a thought inevitably followed by, I hope I am not around to see it. Evenings they used to spend in clubs were now passed at his home, sitting around his dingy apartment watching television and drinking beer. She became restless. Helen had always felt that her parents shut themselves up in too many dark rooms on sunny days, a book propped in front of them. But the lack of any reading material in Bobby’s apartment—not even a newspaper—began to grate on her. Even sex became less exciting and more of a chore. This is my boyfriend, she would sometimes think while they were doing it; he used to be in a band but now he paints houses. She knew the contours of the water stain on his ceiling like the back of her hand. “It looks like the boot of Italy,” she said to him one night.

  “Italy has a boot?” He took a swig of beer.

  She might have been able to wait out the bad spell if it weren’t for the drinking. When he was in the band, the constant beer in his hand was like a barely noticed but ever-present accessory. Since the breakup, the beer had become the main focus. What was the Latin phrase her father always used? Sine qua non. Without which nothing.

  “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”

  “Let me just grab a fresh one.”

  “Let’s go see a movie.”

  “After this beer.”

  She began to keep track of how much he actually drank—one for breakfast, two at lunch, four in the afternoon, and another six-pack before the night was over. Helen was used to the genteel drinking of her parents—wine with dinner and never during the day unless there was a special event, such as a wedding or bar mitzvah. Bobby drank on a different scale. The only time she ever saw his naturally sunny disposition darken was the night she told him she was worried about his drinking.

  “If I wanted to date my mom, I’d still be in Louisiana.”

  A week before, he’d gotten so drunk he peed in the bed. She wasn’t there to witness it, thank God, but he actually told her about it, thereby confirming what she was beginning to suspect—her boyfriend was both a drunk and a loser. Who would be dumb enough to admit something like that? Senior year of high school was starting in a few days. She could feel the promise of her life ahead of her like an engine in idle, and Bobby Goralnick was not part of it.

  The last few days, she had been practicing with Siri how to leave him.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby, it’s just not working out.”

  “What are you talking about? I looove you.” Siri answered in a bad imitation of a Southern accent.

  “Siri, be serious.”

  “I am being serious. You’re the one who is squelching my creativity as an actress.”

  “Please?”

  Siri sighed. “Fine. ‘How can you leave me now when I’m down?’”

  “We’re just too different. We have nothing in common.”

  “You liked me when I was in a band. Now that I’m a nobody, you think you’re better than me.”

  “God,” Helen answered, “you think he thinks that?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not his fault he had to drop out of high school.”

  “Just call him.”

  Helen refused. Breaking up over the phone was cowardly. She already felt guilty enough. She’d once read in a magazine that public venues were the best place to break up, because people were less likely to make a scene. She suggested lunch at an outdoor café in Venice Beach, her treat.

  “How?” he asked suspiciously. Helen never had money.

  “I babysat last night for the couple across the street.”

  Not getting the car threw a major wrench into her plans. She went upstairs to her bedroom and called Siri on her cell phone.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You want to go to the beach?”

  “I can’t,” Helen sighed. “I’m breaking up with Bobby today.”

  “Finally.”

  “But Miranda won’t give me the car.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Siri.”

  “Do it over the phone.”

  In the end, she took a bus and arrived fifteen minutes late. “I’m sorry,” she said. Apologizing already.

  Bobby didn’t seem to mind. He was sitting at an outdoor table, wearing Ray Ban aviator glasses in the bright sun and drinking a beer. From his good mood, she doubted it was his first of the day. “You know, sweetheart, this was a good idea.” He leaned forward and squeezed her thigh in a proprietary way. “We ought to get out more often, see what the world has to offer.”

  Helen tried to smile and act normal, but the idea of normal with Bobby had already receded in her mind. Was she normally this nervous around him? The waitress, a bony brunette wearing cut-off jeans and peacock-feather earrings, brought a menu. Helen could tell by the unsmiling way the woman placed the menu in front of her that Bobby had been flirting with her before she arrived. She wished she could tell her to stick around, he’d be available soon.

  “I’ll have the Cobb salad and a Diet Coke,” she said.

  “That’s good,” the woman said, glancing at Bobby. “I was afraid you were gonna order a beer, and we don’t serve minors.”

  “Well, then, you needn’t have feared,” Helen answered. Needn’t? She cringed inwardly at the way she seemed to become her parents when she was offended.

  The waitress rolled her eyes.

  “Meow,” Bobby laughed, watching her leave.

  “Bobby,” Helen sighed.

  “Oh, I know, honey. You don�
�t have to say it.” He raised the sunglasses and winked at her.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He finished his beer and pointed to the empty bottle as the waitress passed. “I might be dumb, but I’m not stupid. When your girl says, ‘Let’s have lunch in public,’ I know what’s coming. I don’t blame you. I know being with me has not been a picnic these last few weeks. If I could break up with my sorry ass, I would, too.”

  Helen was so taken aback by his sudden stroke of perceptiveness that she wondered for a second if she was making the right decision. Then she remembered the faint smell of urine that lingered in his bedroom.

  A Mexican busboy brought her salad. “’Njoy,” he said.

  Helen stared at the waxy patina of the Swiss cheese. The article had not mentioned whether it was better to break up before eating or after.

  “You don’t mind?” she asked.

  “Naw,” he answered, “you’re just a kid, you got your whole life in front of you.”

  “Well.” Helen pulled the salad toward her and began to eat. “Thank you. I mean, for being so understanding.” Suddenly, she was ravenous.

  “I do have one favor,” he said.

  “Anything.” She was feeling magnanimous.

  “How about one more for old times’ sake?”

  Helen stopped chewing. She could picture a “Sex with an Ex?” headline in the same magazine that advised breaking up in public, but since Roy was making no moves to come home, she hadn’t actually read the article. In fact, the last e-mail she received from her ex had cryptically alluded to “the cool people” he had met in New Jersey, which she understood to be code for “I have a new girlfriend.” Bobby’s glasses were back down over his eyes and she was having some trouble reading his request. Was it a ploy to get her back or a wanton appeal for a futureless fuck?

  “I’m not going to change my mind,” she said.

  “I’m not expecting you to. I have some news myself. Tomorrow I’m gonna sign up with the navy. Forrester gets a three-thousand-dollar signing bonus for every buddy he recruits. He’s promised to split it with me. I only need to stay six months. I figure it’s a good way to dry out, shape up, and get paid for it.” He patted his belly as if it were fat.

  Helen’s head was reeling. It was all happening so fast—the breakup, the news that Bobby was joining the military, the acknowledgment that he had a drinking problem. She didn’t know what to say, so she said what women have always said on the eve of their men shipping out. “I guess once more wouldn’t hurt.”

  Bobby smiled and pushed the bill toward her. His four beers cost more than her lunch. In front of the restaurant, Bobby kissed her on the lips. “I miss you already,” he said, handing her the spare helmet he always carried on the back of his motorcycle. The yeasty smell of beer on his breath made her feel queasy. She wondered if he had been drinking before they met, but didn’t say anything. In a few hours, Bobby Goralnick’s problems would no longer be hers. She tightened the helmet strap, swung a leg over the seat of the motorcycle, and put her arms around his waist. He leaned forward, forcing her body into the curve of his spine and down into his ass. She cursed her body for the tremor that ran through her. They had broken up, shouldn’t that break the magnetic pull of his body?

  “Hold tight,” he said over his shoulder. Helen loosened her embrace. She hated it when people told her what to do.

  “You’ll take me home afterward?” She couldn’t hear his answer over the roar of the engine.

  6

  what a nightmare of a day. Marian Blaumgrund had once told Harry that rats can be the most inexplicably vicious animals on the planet—a rat would bite the head off every chicken in a hen house simply because it could—but to attack a human like that? Harry put his turn signal on, checked the rearview mirror, and tried to change lanes, but a Mexican fuckhead in a beat-up pickup sped up and passed him on the outside lane. Harry gave him the bird. Was it his imagination or was traffic heavier than usual? One thing was certain, appeasing Shawnia Whateverhername was going to take more than a car. While Jeannine was cleaning the blood off the woman’s face, she was already asking, “Is there a lawyer in the house?”

  Harry dialed Aaron on his car phone. His assistant, Emmy, answered. (Aaron liked to joke it was the closest he’d ever get to an Emmy award.)

  “Oh, my God, Harry, we heard already. It’s so awful.” Each word had a slight echoey delay, as if she needed half a second to think of what to say.

  “Yeah, well, some days you eat the bear—”

  “Can you hold? I’ve got another line.”

  In his left ear, Harry heard the roar of a motorcycle. He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw a flash of a man and a woman. He couldn’t say more about the man, whether he was old or young, fat or thin, even whether he was white or black. He saw even less of the woman, only the top of her knees pressed against the man’s thighs and two hands clasped around his waist. Her face was covered by a white helmet. The man was wearing a black one. Then again, those might have been details he learned later, standing by the highway, watching.

  What he did remember with startling clarity was the thud of the motorcycle against the side of his car. It was a solid thwack, as if the man had intentionally hurled the machine against the car. Harry felt his heart leap in fear. Someone leaned on a horn. He put his foot on the break and checked the rearview mirror. The bike was down and the man and woman were on the ground, their bodies crumpled in strangely artificial poses, as if they were faking injury. Jesus Fucking Christ. Were they dead?

  Emmy returned to the speakerphone. “Sorry about that.”

  “Emmy, call the police.”

  “Oh, Harry, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  Harry hung up on Emmy and called 911.

  Long after he had been questioned and the couple had been taken away in ambulances—their bodies cosseted by webbed belts across the chest, waist, and hips—Harry continued to sit in the backseat of a black-and-white police car. The adrenaline flooding his body after the accident had made him feel obscenely alive, like a superhero who could scramble up the side of a building. But now, more than an hour after the accident, he felt jittery, with a strange, ticklish sensation in the back of his throat, as if a feather had lodged in his thorax. The first police on the scene had sheepishly asked him to take a Breathalyzer test, which he had done, but since then, nobody had suggested it was his fault. Nevertheless, Harry felt a sickness inside that seemed to grow with each passing moment, as if accumulated remorse for every thing bad he had done in his life were coming to rest at that moment of impact.

  A few yards from the patrol car, half a dozen cops were standing around talking, filling out paperwork. Every now and then, one of them would walk to the car, lean down, and say, “You doing okay, Mr. Harlow?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Harry would wave. “How much longer do you think you will need me?”

  “It won’t be long now, sir.”

  Harry turned to look at his car. Someone was taking a picture of it. There was no dent, no blood, no sign that screamed Death Car, but Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to drive that car again. Thank God it was a lease. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he was going to take it to the dealer. Unless, of course, both the kids on the bike were okay. He leaned his head out the window. “Excuse me?” he said to a policeman in tall leather boots who was watching a tow truck remove the mangled motorcycle.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Harlow?” The cop touched his hat as if Harry were a four-star general. Were they being so solicitous because he was a celebrity or a shocked citizen?

  “Is there any news on the couple that was hurt? Are they going to be okay?”

  “Sir, they’re at the hospital right now. We won’t know for a while.”

  Harry wanted to point out that that was the same answer from a half hour before, and if the cop would bother to make an inquiry with his phone or walkie-talkie or whatever it was the cops used to communicate with one another, he might be able to turn up som
e real information. But instead he mumbled a muddy “Thanks.”

  Traffic, which had been completely blocked during the “investigation” began to flow in the far lanes. People slowed for a look and Harry sank lower in the seat. A policeman’s face appeared in the window. “Sir?” he said, “would you like an escort home?”

  “What for?” Harry asked.

  “Just a courtesy,” the man replied.

  Harry shook his head. He already felt uncomfortably conspicuous as it was.

  Back in his car, he noticed the hand that held his keys was shaking. Had he made a mistake in turning down the escort? Like a stroke victim forced to relearn the basics of life, he found himself second-guessing all the previously instinctual parts of driving. Was there a car in his blind spot? Was he merging too slowly? Too quickly? Usually, he was a fast, confident driver; now he stayed in the slow lane, carefully keeping the needle on fifty-five. His mind veered to the accident. Was it really not his fault? Maybe if he hadn’t been so distracted by the incident with the cameraman and the disaster with the rat? In the quiet of his car, Harry felt like crying. He tried to calm himself down by visualizing himself on a beach, the way Catherine had taught him to do. But his beach was always thick with rednecks playing loud radios, medical waste washing ashore, and the rotting carcass of a massive whale. “Oh, Harry, that’s so unnecessary.” Catherine had lost her patience when he described the scene. The thought of going home to his wife at that moment was even less appealing than usual.

  The phone rang. Harry hesitated. He’d been speaking on the car phone when the accident happened. Was there a connection? Had he unknowingly veered into the couple while talking to Emmy? No, he reminded himself, all the eyewitnesses agreed—it was the motorcycle that hit him. He reached a trembly finger toward the answer button and, heart thumping, pushed.

  “Hello?”

  “Harry?” It was Fields, the show’s publicist, a sweet-faced young man from the South who was said to be the gay lover of a married head of a studio. Harry had no idea if the rumor was true, but he had noticed that people treated Fields with a deference rare for a publicist. “How are you? Where are you?” How air yew? Whair air yew?