The Anatomical Shape of a Heart

by Jenn Bennett

  “Panhandler Will,” I corrected sourly. Heath had talked to Will just as much as I had over the years; you’d think he’d know his name by now. Regardless, Heath might be onto something about Jack. It was the only thing that made sense. “If Jack’s relationship with his dad isn’t great, his mother’s probably the only person in the family he can depend on. It would definitely explain why he was so frazzled when I saw him.”

  “Well, you’ve got that in common, at least. Shitty fathers, strong maternal figures hanging out at the hospital. There’s hours of conversation right there. You’re like two peas.”

  “Look,” I said, sitting next to him on the edge of his bed, “these are the last texts Jack sent me. Don’t scroll up past here.”

  “Why? Are you sending each other dirty photos?”

  “We’re not all you, Heath.” And no, that self-portrait on Body-O-Rama didn’t count.

  He read the texts and handed my phone back. “Sounds bad.”

  “I know, so what do I do? ‘Believe me, it’s better this way.’ What does that mean?”

  “Sounds like he doesn’t want to drag you into his messy family life. That’s how I’d feel if it was Noah, especially if it was my fault that a cop showed up at his door.”

  Heath hadn’t been going out to clubs this week. He hadn’t been going out, period. “Are you and Noah—”

  “We aren’t talking about me and Noah. But if we were, I’d be telling you he’s coming for family dinner tomorrow night.”

  I smiled. “We finally get to meet Saint Noah? That’s a bigger sign of the apocalypse than the fall of the brimstone wall.”

  “It’s no big deal,” his mouth said while the anxious foot rocking over his crossed legs shouted Biggest Deal Ever! “Anyway, back to your crisis. By the way, I hope this Jack looks better in person than he does in that photo on the ID.”

  “He does, and you’re an ass.”

  “Lighten up, silly rabbit.”

  Ugh. He used to call me that when we were kids, because of the Trix breakfast-cereal TV commercials. That’s about the time I decided I never wanted to be called Trix or Trixie (but if I ever decided to ask Dad for a job at his new wife’s strip club, at least I had a backup name).

  I fell onto the bed with a groan and threw one arm over my face to block out light from the fluorescent workshop lamp hanging from the ceiling. “If you were struggling with something or going through a bad time, and you told Noah to stay away, would he?”

  “Are you kidding? Noah’s a better person than both of us put together. If he thought I needed help, he’d just show up. And even if I didn’t realize it, not only would he know what was wrong but he’d just”—Heath spread his hands like a stage magician—“make everything better.”

  I lifted my elbow for a moment to peek up at him. “Oh, really?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “Mmm-hmm. You’re a lucky guy.”

  “I am, indeed. But as far as your little vandal boy, I don’t know what to tell you. He’s in some serious trouble if he gets busted, Bex. And God only knows what’s going on with him now. Do you really want to put yourself in the middle of all his garbage? I know I tease you a lot about being bad, but this guy sounds like trouble you don’t need. Maybe it’s better for both of you if you just back away and let him go.”

  Mom says you should never ask for advice you aren’t willing to take. I wasn’t sure I agreed. Having an unbiased pair of eyes point out a sensible solution was helpful. But the sensible thing and the right thing weren’t always the same choice, and no one but you could truly understand the difference.

  13

  The Zen Center is an old brick building in Hayes Valley. I’d probably passed it a million times and never really paid much attention to it. A week and a half after I ran into Jack and his father, I went in search of both the building and Jack.

  To the left of the main entrance and up a wheelchair ramp, a hand-painted sign quietly announced the bookstore. I gathered my courage and marched up the ramp in a pair of gladiator sandals that wrapped around my toes and crisscrossed up my ankles. I’d even painted my toenails. It was practically an event.

  Doubts flipped through my head like last-minute flash cards before an exam: You should’ve followed Heath’s advice. You should’ve texted first. You should’ve called the bookstore beforehand to see whether he was still working the same schedule. You should’ve, should’ve, should’ve …

  But I didn’t. And it was too late to chicken out now. When had the weather gotten so warm? It might’ve been all that walking or the fact that it was way sunnier here than it was in my neighborhood, but this absolutely wasn’t nervous sweat. I wasn’t nervous. Why should I be nervous, for the love of Pete? I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it on top of my purse. Wiped my hands on my jeans. Then I took a calming breath and walked inside.

  The bookstore looked pretty much how I’d imagined, cozy and quiet and very, very tidy. A couple of people browsed wooden bookshelves lined with rows of titles about dharma and Buddha and Dogen and mindfulness. A few mats and cushions—presumably for meditation—were for sale, as well as a lot of Buddha statues and bells. The whole place smelled faintly of smoky spice, which I assumed was the handmade incense for sale.

  Apart from the traditional Japanese music playing, it was just so quiet. I lost my nerve and decided to blend in with everyone else and pretend like I was browsing. Could anyone tell I didn’t belong here? Did my aura have a big sooty X on it that marked me as OTHER? Could they sense I wasn’t on the Middle Path?

  I looked around for Jack but didn’t spy anyone who appeared to work there—no bald monks dressed in long robes, no one with a name badge. Since there was only so long I could stare at book spines, I meandered to a display of mala beads, like the ones around Jack’s wrist, all different styles and lengths. I fingered a long strand that was meant to be worn as a necklace.

  “Those are gorgeous, aren’t they?” a soft voice said behind me.

  I turned around to find a cute Chinese guy with tousled black hair and a labret piercing right below the center of his bottom lip. He pointed to the beads and then crossed his arms over his chest. “Yak bone from Nepal.”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re pretty sweet.” Probably not the right thing to say about religious jewelry (sorry, philosophical jewelry, as Jack would say). And great—Mr. Yak Bone Expert was checking out my boobs. What was I thinking, wearing this top? Mom called it my Roman orgy shirt because it was white and the short sleeves were split up to the shoulders while the rest of it was loose. But it was also pretty sheer, and if you looked closely, you could see my bra right through it; in the right light, you didn’t even have to look all that closely.

  “The bone is inset with coral and the beads are supposed to promote good blood.…” He squinted at me for a second—my face, this time, not my boobs. “That is, circulation. Good blood circulation.”

  “Rolling any kind of bead between your fingers would briefly improve circulation,” I pointed out.

  He chuckled. “Probably Nepalese superstition, but it sounds nice.”

  “Do they all have special qualities?” I asked, touching a black strand. Why was he staring at me so hard? Did I have something on my face? And was this guy just an overly friendly customer or someone who worked at the bookstore?

  “Some. Those agates are supposed to repel negative energy, and this may sound like an odd question, but your name wouldn’t happen to be Beatrix, would it?”

  Whoa. That was a mouthful of words. “Umm…”

  “Hell.” He ducked his head and glanced around the store, but no one was nearby. “I mean, it’s you, right? The braids. I recognized you by your braids.”

  My hand crept up the looping plaits I’d piled on the crown of my head.

  “And you look like your portrait online.” He covered half his face with one hand. “Well, minus the gory muscles on one side.”

  Of course. Duh. “You’re … Andy? Is that right? The guy who draws the co
mic with Jack?”

  He grinned. “That’s me. Andy Wong.”

  “No name tag,” I pointed out.

  “Buddhists don’t wear name tags.”

  “Uh—”

  “That was a joke. I just left mine behind the counter.”

  “Oh, that wacky Zen humor,” I said nervously.

  “Your stuff is, like, whoosh.” His motioned over his head.

  “Huh?”

  “Your art. Out-of-this-world good. Very cool and retro with the gray-pencil vibe. Jack said you never do color.”

  “Oh, thanks. And no—no color.”

  He nodded his head several times, as if struggling for something else to talk about. “I didn’t expect you to be so wee. You’re like a tiny, gruesome pixie.” His eyes widened. He shook his hands and backtracked. “No, no. I mean your art is gruesome. Not you. Definitely not you.”

  I pretended to smile, but what I was really thinking was:

  Jack told him about me.

  Jack told him about me, and he showed him my artwork.

  Jack told him about me, showed him my artwork, and told him about my braids.

  And perhaps because of all of those deep academic thoughts bouncing around in my brain, I interrupted Andy’s apologies and blurted out, “Is Jack here?”

  “He’s—” Andy glanced behind me and smiled. My muscles froze, but it wasn’t Jack. Just a customer wanting to pay for some books. Andy excused himself and rang the man up while I craned my neck in every direction, seeking a safe place to settle my nervous gaze. When the customer finally left, I looked for Andy, but he was heading to a door in the corner.

  “Hold on just a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  But he wasn’t. I waited forever. Okay, probably just five minutes, but it sure felt like forever, and it was long enough for another customer to walk up to the register. I shrugged at her like “Yeah, I don’t know where he is, either.” And just when I thought the lady might be upset enough to walk out (apparently Buddhism doesn’t automatically grant a person saintlike patience), the back door swung open and Andy walked into the store, breathless.

  He wasn’t alone.

  My heart springboarded into my throat.

  Dressed in loose, old jeans, a black T-shirt, and a thin, ash-gray cardigan, Jack walked up to me and stopped, looking me over without saying anything. I knew he could probably see my bra through my shirt, too, but I was too busy studying him to care. I’d forgotten everything—how haunting his kohl-dark double eyelashes were, and the way his cheeks hollowed beneath his cheekbones. How his clothes smelled like name-brand fabric softener, not the cheap stuff my mom used.

  “You cut your hair,” I said dumbly.

  He ran his fingers through the pomp part of the pompadour, which was slightly less unruly. The sides and back had also been buzzed closer. “My mom said it was looking more old Elvis than young Johnny Cash, so I got a couple of inches whacked.”

  “You look better than the last time I saw you. Rested, I mean.”

  “That was a bad day. Things are better now.”

  I nodded, waiting for more that never came. I finally said, “You endured.”

  He was momentarily confused. “Oh, uh, yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. “You saw that, huh?”

  “One of your best pieces.”

  “Thanks.” He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “How’s Minnie?”

  “We’re getting along better.”

  He smiled softly. “That’s good.”

  “I’ve looked for you when I’ve gone into the lab,” I said.

  “It’s … been hectic.”

  We stared at each other’s feet a few seconds. If this was all he was going to give, then maybe I had made a mistake in coming. I’d had deeper conversations with customers in my checkout line at the market. A weird mix of frustration and hurt made my chest feel tight.

  “Okay, well then,” I said, vaguely moving my shoulders up and down in a gesture that wasn’t quite a shrug. “I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing. See you around.”

  I strode toward the door, more than aware of Andy watching me from behind the counter. An old man with a limp hobbled around a bookcase just as I was rounding it. I nearly bowled him over and had to make an awkward lunge to avoid him. As I did, a warm hand grabbed my elbow.

  “Pardon me,” Jack said to the limping man as he danced around him to get to me. “Bex, wait. Please. I—” He pulled me over to one of the windows facing the street. “I’m not doing anything. I mean, you said ‘whatever it is’ I was doing, but it’s slow in here today. I was just doing some meditation.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “You already did.”

  “Yeah, I went out of my way to see you because I like you, Jack. And I’m pretty sure you like me, too.”

  “You have no idea how much.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “No. Jesus. Definitely not.”

  “Then stop shutting me out, and tell me what the hell happened at the hospital last week. I’m not going to sit around waiting for you to throw me a crumb. All of me or none of me—that’s what I’m offering.” I realized when I said this how much it sounded like something I’d overheard my mom say before my dad left. Which wasn’t totally fair, but I was trying to make a strong point.

  “You’re right,” he said after a moment.

  Well, yeah. I was. But I needed more than that from him, so I waited.

  His head dropped. He leaned closer. I stared at the silvery pearl button on his cardigan as his breath rustled the stray wisp of fine hair around my temple that wouldn’t behave and stay put in my braids, no matter how I tried to tame it.

  “I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

  I had no idea how badly I’d wanted to hear that until he said it. Those small, barely there words erased gravity and made my feet rise off the bookstore carpet. I truly would not have been surprised if my head hit the ceiling.

  I wanted to say something meaningful and honest in return. Something like “I’ve missed you, too” or “I thought I was going to die if I didn’t see you again.” But because I was overwhelmed, I settled on “Your button’s chipped.”

  As he ducked his head to inspect it, I fit the edge of my fingernail into the triangular notch.

  “Damage inflicted by a flying piece of board,” he said, extending a finger next to mine. “Andy was convinced he could karate chop a wooden piece of shelving that broke off beneath the counter, but”—his fingertip traced the edge of mine, slowly moving down and around my knuckle, a whisper of a touch that sent a rush of goose bumps over my arm—“the board didn’t break. It did, however, chip my button, and the corner nearly neutered me. But I was dumb enough to hold the damn thing, so I guess I deserved it.”

  I snorted a laugh, meaning to be quiet but failing miserably. Embarrassed, I pulled my hand away. “Ugh, it’s like a library in here,” I complained.

  “Shh,” he scolded, ten times louder than my laugh.

  I glanced at the cash register. Andy was smiling. Yep, definitely watching us.

  “You know, I was just checking the afternoon temp before you came,” Jack said. “It’s, like, sixty-seven degrees out there.”

  Which meant it was probably foggy and a good five degrees colder back at home, but that didn’t matter much, since I wasn’t there. “Too bad you’re stuck in here meditating,” I said.

  “Someone already interrupted me. Besides, it’s always better to meditate closer to nature. I know a perfect place. Do you have to work tonight?”

  I shook my head.

  “Trust me?”

  “You ready to give me a reason to?”

  “Did I mention the perfect place I had in mind was away from listening ears?” He flicked a glance at Andy and then added, “Far away.”

  “All right,” I finally said, like I’d actually considered turning him down.

  Jack smiled and held up both hand
s, walking backward. “Give me five minutes.”

  14

  Jack’s five minutes was more like two, and then he was whisking me through the bookstore door and we were out in the sunshine. He looped the handles of a bulky canvas bag around my wrist as we headed down the sidewalk. “Hold this for a second.”

  He stripped out of his cardigan, giving me a peek at the brightly colored fish and lotus tattoos beneath the short sleeves of his T-shirt. “What’s inside the bag?” I asked.

  “Vegetarian bacon.”

  I made a face. He laughed and took back the bag to stuff his sweater inside it.

  “What Muni line are we taking?” I asked as we passed a stop.

  “The me line.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and stopped in front of a shiny black car that was parked in an impossibly tight space near the curb. It was an old two-seater sports coupe—all curvy and beautiful and compact, with a convertible black top and white scalloped insets in the door that looked like one side of an opened paperclip.

  “This is Ghost,” Jack said with unabashed pride.

  “Ghost?”

  “A 1958 Corvette.” He unlocked the passenger door, which was covered with dings and scratches in an otherwise mirror-shiny paint job. “She was stolen last fall and taken for a joyride, which is why she’s a little beat-up on the outside. I decided to keep her that way for now so she wouldn’t look so showy. Plus it pisses my dad off, and that’s always a good thing.”

  The door squeaked when he opened it. I peered inside at dark red leather seats. A chrome steering wheel jutted from a space-age dash, every bit of it restored. “Holy smokes, Jack. This is gorgeous.”

  “She doesn’t have air-conditioning, and the convertible top leaks when it rains.”

  If he was trying to convince me that this wasn’t the coolest car I’d ever seen, he’d need to try harder. “Why do you even ride mass transit?”

  “You ever try parking in this city?”