by Bert Murray
“You mean everything to me,” I said.
“Words are cheap. You have to show it. And you have to be more reliable or this relationship is over.”
I hated it when she threatened me. “How about you? You blow up at me all the time. I’m not sure I can take it anymore.”
She dropped her bag to the floor and walked to the bed. She looked down at her pink fingernails. “I know I snap sometimes.”
“A lot. Not sometimes.”
“I know. I do. I’m working on that. In therapy.” She rubbed her forehead.
“You’re seeing a shrink?”
She blushed. “Yes. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist in Laguna for three years. I keep in touch by phone. I take medicine to help me with my anxiety when I’m feeling really upset.”
“Valium?”
She shook her head. “No. Something else. I can never remember the name. Little green pills.”
“What’s your shrink like?”
“Dr. Stein? He’s okay. He says it’s my family that’s getting to me. Dad is always getting on my nerves and that’s why I blow up so much. I can’t stand watching my dad drive my mother crazy.”
That made sense to me. Her father was ruining her life. I put Jasmine’s hand in mine. “I’m sorry things with your family are so bad.”
She sighed. “It’s hard watching Mom fall apart. She used to be such a happy person. And now she’s a total mess. He doesn’t care at all. That’s what gets me so angry. He’s fuckin’ arrogant. He walks all over her.”
I put my arms around her. It felt good to be touching her again—we belonged together. Her father was a destructive bastard. “I’ll try harder for you. It will be okay.” I held her tight in my arms.
I was happy this fight was over, but I didn’t think it would be the last one. Jasmine was such a wild child. It wasn’t easy being in love with her. But I was.
21.
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. Couldn’t sleep. Tense. Tossing and turning. The fight with Jasmine had left me with a migraine and very confused. I couldn’t figure out if she loved me even half as much as I loved her. How much of the way she acted was really coming from her family problems?
When I woke up, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I felt like shit, but I made myself get up because I had musical theater class. As I left the dorm, I noticed that the blue polo shirt I was wearing was rumpled and that I’d mistakenly put on the jeans with big grass stains that hadn’t come out in the wash. I bit on my lower lip.
On the stone path between the Turner History Building and the Tyson Language Building, walking fast, I knocked into the middle-aged woman with silver streaks in her black hair, the one Jasmine and I had seen by Wilcox Gardens with her cat on a leash.
“Are you crazy, running like that without watching where you are going?” she yelled. The woman had an odd Spanish accent.
“You were in my way,” I shouted at her without thinking.
“Don’t fabricate excuses, empty head. Who do you think you are? The Mad Hatter?”
I didn’t bother answering. I hadn’t even seen her in front of me. I was in a dark, ugly mood. Not myself. I kept thinking about what Jasmine said about liking “guys with more of an edge.”
I needed some aspirin for the horrible headache that was killing me. I went to the student center to buy some Bayer and then went to the cafeteria to get something to eat before class.
After filling my tray with pancakes and bacon, I looked for a seat at the tables. I saw the black-and-white-haired woman sitting alone in the back. She was wearing black sunglasses and had a black top and black pants on. I felt bad about knocking into her earlier and decided to apologize.
I walked over to her table. When I got there, I realized I had no idea what to say. The woman lifted her glasses and stared at me as if I were a strange animal in the zoo.
“Are you following me?” she asked.
“Me. No. Of course not,” I said, stammering.
“You’re sure?” Her dark eyes seemed to be piercing my skin, getting deep inside me.
I swallowed and tried to pull myself together. “I just wanted to say I was sorry for knocking into you before.”
“It’s about time you apologized.”
I looked at her as if I hadn’t seen her before. “You’re wearing all black. I don’t like black.”
She rolled her eyes. “First you slam into me and now you insult me? What’s wrong with you?” she asked, staring at me with a look of disbelief.
“Sorry. I’m just being honest with you. I don’t like black.” I didn’t know what I was saying. Too exhausted from lack of sleep.
She stared at me. “You’re strange”.
“You’re a professor here, aren’t you?”
“A visiting professor from Spain.”
“Your accent is different from a lot of Spanish people I’ve met.”
“Of course. I’m from Madrid. We speak Castilian Spanish. We pronounce the ‘d’ as ‘z.’ That’s why when I say Madrid, you hear Madriz.”
I really didn’t care about Madrid, but I thought I should say something nice. “That’s very interesting. By the way, I’m a sophomore.”
“Yes, you act like one,” she said and smiled mischievously.
She motioned for me to sit and I began to eat my pancakes. She was eating only a half-grapefruit. I liked her smile. She was cool. And mysterious. She had deep, dark brown eyes.
Although she probably was about 50 years old, I could see she must have been beautiful in her day. Too bad she isn’t 30 years younger, I thought. She would have given Jasmine some competition. I probably couldn’t resist that smile on a girl my own age.
“I’m having trouble with my girlfriend,” I said. I owed the professor some explanation. I’d acted like a real ass this morning. “Sometimes she just drives me crazy. Like last night, for example.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing. I just thought you should know so you don’t think I’m crazy. That’s why I’m not myself today.”
“Don’t you have a RA to talk to? You should make an appointment. They are paid to deal with these situations.”
“I’m going back on line for more pancakes. Can I bring you anything?”
“A soft-boiled egg.”
I walked back to the food line and asked one of the cafeteria workers for a soft-boiled egg. She told me that they’d run out of eggs a few minutes earlier. There were plenty of pancakes and I filled my plate with them. I grabbed some plastic packs of maple syrup and went back to the table.
“They ran out of eggs,” I said.
“That’s ridiculous. Why is it that you can never get a good meal in America? I’ll just have to go home and boil one myself.”
I stuffed my mouth with a few more pieces of pancake. I looked at my watch. “I have to get to class.”
“By the way, my name is Maria Vesquez. You may call me Maria if you want.”
“I’m Colin. See you around.” I didn’t bother to clear my tray from the table.
22.
MY PARENTS WERE staying overnight at the Elerby Inn and wanted to have dinner there. I insisted on taking Jasmine. I had told her how traditional my parents were. Still, I was shocked when she showed up at my room wearing a conservative knee-length dress with a light blue flower pattern. She never wore clothes like that.
“You look great,” I said.
“I bought it to make sure I looked right for your parents.”
It was the first time I had ever seen her do something just to make a good impression. It showed how much she cared about our relationship. I took that as a good sign. I had to remember it when we argued.
“I feel like I’m dressed for a polo match,” she said, smoothing out her skirt.
The Inn was on the north side of campus, set on top of a hill, and looked like a medieval castle. It had eight turrets, and the U.S., British and Elerby flags hung from poles in the middle section.
It took us 20 minutes to walk
there. I was walking slowly because I wasn’t looking forward to my parents’ visit. Every time they visited, there was trouble. I was glad I’d have Jasmine with me. We arrived five minutes late and my parents were already seated at a table near the window. The dining room was large and airy with knotty pine paneling, and it had sweeping views of Sunset Lake.
I introduced Jasmine and pulled the chair out for her. We started the evening with superficial conversation. How was their ride up? What dorm was Jasmine living in? How was the Elerby football team doing this year?
The waitress came by and poured each of us a glass of water. No one said anything for a few seconds. Mom bent over and grabbed the white shopping bag by her feet.
“Before I forget, I baked these chocolate chip cookies for you, Colin,” Mom said. She handed the bag to me. Inside were probably two dozen cookies wrapped in tin foil.
“Thanks, Mom, you know I’ll finish them in a few hours,” I said, putting the bag under my chair. I was crazy about Mom’s chocolate chip cookies.
“Jasmine, make sure he lets you have some.”
“I will, Mrs. Preston.” Jasmine looked pleased.
Mom was a very short woman with a nice face, blue eyes and black hair cut in a bob. Her green dress was a size too large, and she looked plain compared with Jasmine, who, as usual, looked terrific.
“So, Jasmine, Colin mentioned that you’re from Laguna Beach. I hear it’s lovely,” Mom said. “Does your family have a house on the water?”
“Not right on the beach. It’s more in the hills, but it overlooks the ocean. It is eye-catching, but I was happy to leave.”
“Why?” asked Dad.
“Many different reasons.”
I hoped Dad wasn’t going to keep asking her annoying questions. The waitress brought a basket of rolls and a plate of butter.
“So Colin, isn’t this the semester that you have to decide your major?” asked Dad. He had salt-and-pepper hair and at six-three was 3 inches taller than me.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re declaring economics, right?”
Dad and Mom had no idea I was taking a musical theater class. It seemed ridiculous that I had to keep things like that hidden from my own parents, but that’s the way things were.
“Actually, I’m thinking of something a bit more fun than economics.”
“Majors are supposed to prepare you for a future career, not entertain you,” Dad said without expression. Just a blank stare.
Jasmine subtly rolled her eyes.
“I have to think about it,” I said. “I still have some time to make a decision.”
“Just be realistic about your future.” Dad rubbed his chin.
He was getting on my nerves. He always did. Why would he choose to bring up the major business now, with Jasmine around? We’d argued about what major I was going to choose all summer.
He was always putting pressure on me to take life more seriously. He had my future mapped out, but nothing I had ever done fit in with his blueprint.
I looked around the table. Jasmine was refolding the napkin on her lap. She looked as if she were dying to speak her mind. My mother was fidgeting with her wedding ring. The waitress came over again and took our order. Dad couldn’t decide how he wanted his steak to be cooked or what side order to have.
My mom reminded him. “You usually like it medium-well.”
“Ah, that’s right. Medium-well with a baked potato,” he said to the waitress.
Mom tried hard to smile. “After you’re married 30 years you know what he wants even before he does.”
“And we could use some more bread and butter,” Dad said.
“Sure thing,” the waitress said.
Dad ripped apart a roll. “So, Jasmine, have you picked a major?”
I almost laughed out loud. If he couldn’t get anywhere with me, he’d start on Jasmine. He wouldn’t give up. He was so goddamn irritating.
“Yes, I’m majoring in religion,” Jasmine said.
“Really? Religion?” My mother carefully buttered her roll.
“In high school I really got into yoga. Then I started reading some books about Buddhism and I was fascinated,” Jasmine said.
“That’s interesting,” Mom said.
Dad kept chewing on his roll.
Jasmine smiled. Her voice was full of confidence and passion. “Buddhism is great. It offers a different way of looking at life. I just finished reading Zen in the Art of Archery, by Eugen Herrigel. It’s amazing! It’s like entering a whole new dimension. Herrigel says, ‘Zen can only be understood by one who is himself a mystic,’ and I totally agree. The key with Zen is that you have to go beyond logic to get to the truth. That’s why the master sometimes slaps his student.”
I wondered how Dad would take Jasmine’s mini-lecture. Once she got started on Zen, there was no stopping her.
“But what can you do after college with a religion major? How will you make a living?” asked Dad.
The waitress brought us the food. Steak for Dad, chicken for Mom and pasta for Jasmine and me.
“Actually, I have a trust fund,” said Jasmine.
Maybe she was trying to put Dad in his place. Most of the time she hated talking about her family’s money.
“Well, Jasmine, you’re lucky that you don’t have to worry about money. But my Colin here is in a different position,” Dad said, glancing at her briefly. He picked up his knife and started cutting his steak in short, quick strokes. I hoped he would enjoy his steak enough to forget about my future for a few minutes.
“My mother says study what you have a passion for and you won’t work a day in your life,” said Jasmine. She moved forward in her seat, looking right into his face, not at all intimidated. “I agree with her.”
“Colin needs a good job after college. That’s his first priority,” said Dad.
“I’m right here, Dad,” I said, getting angry. “You talk about me as if I weren’t even here.”
Dad frowned. I exhaled slowly.
23.
JASMINE’S EYES WERE on her fork. I was getting worried. Why had I brought her to meet Dad? Maybe she’d start thinking I’d turn out like him someday? Full of himself. Boring. So fucking predictable. Maybe she was thinking that was the way I already was? Not enough fun for her?
She was always telling me how good-looking and smart I was. But maybe that wasn’t what she really wanted. Not edgy enough. That was what she’d said about me during our fight. Her words had etched themselves into my brain, and not on the edge either. They were knifed into the center.
“So, Colin tells us you don’t eat meat,” Dad said. “How do you find enough to eat?”
She twirled her pasta around her fork. “I don’t believe in eating animals. It’s a spiritual belief of mine. Anyway, there’s plenty of other things to eat. I have a lot of soy and vegetables.”
Dad cut off a piece of his steak and ate it.
Mom smiled politely. “Well, it’s a healthy lifestyle. You’ll probably live longer than the rest of us.”
“Oh, now I remember what I wanted to ask you. Mr. Preston, were you the one who got Colin into the Beatles?” Jasmine stared directly at Dad.
Incredible. She saw how he was. How could she think that? She couldn’t. She must have said that to needle him, to get back at him for my sake or for all his questions about her plan to major in religion. She was a great ally to have at my side. If I could just keep her there.
Dad bit into another piece of steak. “Not me. The Beatles were just four boys from England who wore their hair too long, respected no one and did drugs. And John Lennon had a heroin addiction.”
I wiped my forehead. It felt hot and sweaty. Dad was pissing me off.
“Did you know they used to call them Mop Tops?” said Mom, smiling, trying to defuse things but failing badly.
“What are you trying to say, Dad?” I was furious. My fingers tensed up and the muscles in my back and neck tightened. I wanted to hit him.
“I w
as making the point that Lennon couldn’t control his own demons,” said Dad.
“Why do you always focus on people’s flaws, not their accomplishments?” I asked, holding back my anger as best I could.
“We really don’t know anything about rock music. We like opera. Especially Italian opera and Pavarotti,” my mom said, trying again.
Tension spread up my arms to my shoulders. Shit. I completely lost my appetite. Even Jasmine seemed uncomfortable.
It was just like the time Dad had criticized me for becoming a member of the Drama Club when I was a junior at Dalton. After Dad finished his lecture about “that silly Drama Club,” I ran out of the apartment to CBGB in the village and got drunk and watched a punk band.
I didn’t come home until 5 in the morning. That’s what I did after every fight.
That whole fall, whenever Dad yelled at me, I wouldn’t hear a word he said. I would just leave the apartment and go out and get smashed. My parents never suspected anything. I’d sleep it off at a friend’s place.
Mom scratched her nose. “Let’s not talk about this. I’m sure Jasmine doesn’t want to listen to you two bicker.” Mom was always the peacemaker. She meant well. But in my opinion, she was spineless when it came to challenging Dad’s authority on any important issue. In the end, she was always too cautious and didn’t have much of an impact.
“We are just having a conversation, Mildred. We don’t need a mediator,” said Dad.
“James, please,” she said softly, fiddling with her wedding ring again.
I didn’t have anything more to say and neither did Dad. Mom made small talk with Jasmine as the busboy cleared the plates. The waitress offered us the dessert menu. I couldn’t deal with Dad anymore. I had to get out. Get away. I reached for Jasmine’s arm. Dad didn’t show me any respect. He probably couldn’t stand Jasmine. That must be why he was trying to embarrass me and ruin everything.
“Actually, Jasmine and I have plans. We have to leave now.”
Mom looked disappointed. “Really? Are you sure you don’t want dessert. Jasmine, they have wonderful chocolate mousse here.”
