She leaned against him, leaned with all her weight, holding nothing back. “Oh, Nat,” she said.
He hugged her. If he’d been at all drunk before, physically or psychologically, he wasn’t now.
Her lips moved against his chest. “I can feel you thinking,” she said. Her voice vibrated through his skin. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” he said. But he did: he was remembering what had happened when they got to Julie’s party. Julie’s family had money, at least what he’d used to think of as having money. Julie’s father, brother of Mr. Beaman, Nat’s mother’s boss, was a pharmacist. They could afford to keep two or three horses in a barn behind their house. The loft had been turned into a guest bedroom. He and Patti had ended up there, in the bed where the vomiting incident happened. But before that, they’d been asleep. He’d awakened with Patti on top of him. She’d rolled off a moment or two later, saying she didn’t feel well. Had he been inside her? Had it happened then? He didn’t know. It was all vague, half remembered, half aware in the first place, the horses stirring uneasily beneath them the only sure thing.
“Are you mad at me?” Patti said.
“No.”
“Something, then.”
“No.”
“You’re thinking.”
“I’m not.”
But she was right. Thoughts like: Are you sure you’re pregnant? How do you know? Those remained unspoken: Patti wouldn’t have been here if she wasn’t sure. And: abortion. He didn’t even know where Patti stood on abortion. He assumed she was for it-he assumed he was for it-but they’d never discussed abortion, not the right and wrong of it. And then there was Patti’s uncle in Denver, a big red-faced Broncos fan who’d taken them to a game, bought them beer and hot dogs, screamed like a maniac at the ref; Patti’s uncle, the priest.
“Nat?”
“Yes.”
“What are we going-what should I do?”
He looked down at her: curly hair, pale face, blue-lit from the computer screen, against his chest, his shirt dampening with her tears. Her gaze shifted up to his, like a baby watching its mother. That was the image that came to mind, and he hated it.
“Do you love me,” she said, “just a little bit?”
He was silent.
“You don’t have to answer,” she said. “I’m sorry, sorry for everything.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said.
She clung to him. “You’re such a good person.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
He didn’t love her. There had been times last summer when he’d thought maybe he did; now, because of the contrast with what he felt for Izzie, he knew for certain he never had. He also knew she was wrong: he had to answer the question. “I don’t love you, Patti,” he said. He said it as plainly as he could, deliberately closing the door to interpretation, but at the same time he held her tight, as tightly as he ever had. Completely crazy, but he couldn’t help it.
Patti sobbed. Half a sob, really, cut off sharply through an effort of will he could feel in the muscles lining her spine. After that, they were silent for what seemed like a long time. Blue-lit snow piled up on the window ledge; his shirt got damper. Then it got no damper, and later less and less, almost dry again.
The chapel bell tolled. Patti yawned, the kind of big yawn impossible to stifle.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“A little.” So quiet, both their voices, but very clear.
“Then sleep,” he said. “It can wait till tomorrow.”
“You’re sure?”
“We’ll think better in the morning.”
“All right.”
He made her sleep in his bed. She lay on her back, under the covers, curly hair spread on the pillow. “You can come in, if you want.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not?” Patti said. “What could happen now?”
She laughed. That was Patti. He laughed too. At that moment, and just for that moment, he came close to something like love: more craziness.
Patti took his hand. “Nat?”
“Yes.”
“What’s gone wrong?” She wasn’t crying anymore; her face was puffy but somehow peaceful too.
“How do you mean?”
“People used to get married at our age. Settle down, have… kids, and everything was all right.”
“Not in my family,” he said.
She let go.
Nat took his sleeping bag into Wags’s room, lay down on Wags’s bed. Wags hadn’t showered enough, especially toward the end, Nat realized now, but he’d compensated with spray-on deodorant, some brand that smelled like evergreens and coconut. Nat closed his eyes; the evergreen-and-coconut smell, rising off the mattress every time he moved, grew stronger and stronger,
You want me to flunk out, don’t you?
Right. And then all this will be mine.
Nat rose, went to the couch in the outer room, tried to sleep where Patti had been sleeping.
At dawn he stopped trying, got up, shaved, showered, put on fresh clothes, tried to look fresh. Patti was still asleep, her face still peaceful, her breathing almost unnoticeable. He left a note on the bedside crate, laying a granola bar on top of it: Gone to class. Back by noon. N.
Nat went to the bio lab, made up the work he’d missed. Problem three, from the old set of problems, taken care of; the precious pre-med option preserved. Problems one and two were now buried under the new ones.
English 104. Izzie wasn’t there. The professor, handing back the Young Goodman Brown essays, said, “I’m a little disappointed with these. Only two of you-” She glanced around the table. “-one of whom is absent, identified the pathos at its core.”
“Which is?” someone asked.
“Page ninety-five,” said the professor, opening her book: “Referring to Goodman Brown: ‘But he himself was the chief horror of the scene.’ ”. Nat stuffed the paper in his backpack without checking the grade and hurried back to Plessey, taking shortcuts through the snow.
Izzie was at his desk in the outer room, playing solitaire on the computer. She turned as Nat came in. He went into the bedroom. The note and granola bar were where he’d left them, but Patti was gone, the bed neatly made.
Izzie was watching him through the doorway. “They went out,” she said.
“They?”
“Grace and… Patti.”
“Where did they go?”
“For food. She hasn’t eaten in two days.”
Nat glanced back at the bedside crate; perhaps it was just the empty wrapper of the granola bar that he’d seen. But no. And also on the crate, the little box from Assad and Son. Was that where he’d left it? He didn’t think so, and he’d certainly not left it open, as it was now, the gold number 8 and chain nestled in the tissue paper: never worn, as would be clear to anyone who looked inside. He thought of putting the chain on now; his fingers almost touched it.
“Do you want me to leave?” Izzie said.
He would have if Izzie had said anything like She seems so nice. But Izzie didn’t. “No,” Nat said.
They waited in the outer room, Izzie at the desk, Nat on the couch. “You went to English?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Did she give the papers back?”
Nat nodded.
“What did you get?”
“I don’t know.” He handed her the paper. She flipped to the back. “A,” she said. “I guess you were right about that chief horror line.”
“You used it too?”
“Of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Don’t you remember? We discussed it on the beach.”
“But I might have been wrong.”
Izzie shook her head. “I trust you.”
“You do?”
“Completely. I didn’t even know what the word meant until you came along.”
“You haven’t known me very long.
”
“So? Just look at you.”
“What do you mean?”
“That chipped tooth, for starters.”
“That’s why you trust me?”
“And a million other things.”
“What’s number two?”
Izzie thought. She flushed, very slightly. “I’m not telling.”
They looked at each other, Izzie at the desk, Nat on the couch, but within touching distance in the cramped dormitory room. Nat could feel some force pulling them together, knew that at almost any signal from him, a word or gesture, they could be in the bedroom the next minute. He said no word, made no gesture. They both looked away.
Snow started falling again. It changed to rain. “I hate that,” Izzie said. And back to snow.
Nat checked his watch. “I’m going to look for them.”
“I’m coming.”
They searched the student union, the freshman dining hall, the snack bars, the Rat. They tried Grace and Izzie’s room, the Lanark lounge, the gym. Then they went off campus to the nearby coffee shops and delis where students gathered. It got colder and colder. They stopped at the bottom of the Hill, in front of a boarded-up building with a faded sign: The Glass Onion.
“Where else?” Nat said.
“The cave?” said Izzie.
“Why would she take her down there?”
“Who knows?” Izzie said. “But I’ll look.”
Izzie went down to the basement of Plessey to enter the tunnels through the janitor’s closet. Nat returned to his room. He checked his voice mail, his E-mail: nothing. Grace walked in, alone.
“Where’s Patti?”
Grace glanced at her watch. “Still at the airport.”
“Airport?”
“I took her there.”
“What airport?”
“She asked me to. She wanted to go home.”
“What airport?”
There was something strange in his tone, strange and new. Grace heard it too. “Albany,” she said, backing up a step. “It’s the closest one with connections to Denver.”
Nat was on his feet. The airport was thirty miles away. He flung open his closet, snatched all the money remaining in his shoe-$32-all the money he had until his next paycheck from the Alumni Office job.
“It’s what she wants,” Grace said as he left the room. And: “Departure’s in twenty minutes. You’ll never make it.” Down the stairs, out the main gate, into a taxi. It was only after he was on his way that he realized Grace was still wearing his Clear Creek letter jacket.
At the airport, Nat checked the first screen he saw. No mention of Denver, but a flight to Chicago, delayed by weather, was now boarding, boarding, boarding at gate eleven. He ran toward the gate area, stopping sharply at security. He’d forgotten about security.
“I need to see someone at gate eleven.”
“Gotta have a gate pass.”
“Where do I get it?”
“Back at ticketing.”
“But there’s no time.”
Shrug.
He raced back to ticketing, got a gate pass, went through security.
“Place your pocket change in the tray and try again.”
He went through again, this time successfully, and ran as fast as he could to gate eleven. Patti, now wearing jeans instead of her blue dress, was handing her boarding pass to the attendant at the ramp.
“Patti.” Too loud: the handful of people still in line all turned to him.
Patti stepped out of the line, not very steadily. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Of course I came.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter. In a taxi.”
“It’s so expensive. Or did she-did Grace pay for you too?”
“Of course not.”
Patti flinched. He saw how pale she was.
“What is it, Patti?”
“I’m going home, that’s all.”
The last passenger started down the ramp. The attendant waited by the door.
Nat lowered his voice. “But we haven’t talked about anything yet.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“What do you mean? We have to make some decisions.”
“There’s nothing to decide.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not pregnant anymore.”
Nat’s first thought was that she’d lost the baby, had a miscarriage caused by stress, travel, not eating. Then came the second thought.
“The people were very nice,” Patti said. “Didn’t even ask for money, but Grace made a donation.”
“Grace?”
“She’s very nice too. I’ll pay her back for the ticket when I can. That’s how we left it.”
“Oh, God. Don’t go, Patti.”
“I’m going.” She looked right into his eyes, spoke without bitterness, with hardly any inflection at all. “I’m just not exactly clear on which one is the one,” she said, “Grace or Izzie? You don’t have to answer.”
“Izzie.”
Patti nodded. “Good choice.”
“Closing the flight, honey,” said the gate attendant.
Patti turned and walked down the ramp.
Peter Abrahams
Crying Wolf
18
A married philosopher belongs to comedy.
— Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals (not on the syllabus for Philosophy 322)
Nat worked.
He worked on his bio experiment, the effects of trichloroethane and trichloroethylene on Palemontes vulgaris; he worked on his “Faith and Hypocrisy in The Scarlet Letter ” essay for English 104; he worked on the Apollonian/Dionysian paper for Philosophy 322; he worked overtime in the Alumni Office; he worked out at the gym. He didn’t socialize, didn’t see anyone, let all his calls, not many, go through voice mail, answered all except the one from Izzie and the one from Grace. There was none from Patti.
Nat worked, without enjoyment, involvement, or even interest. But only for a while: after two days, he began to feel more like himself, at first guilty about it, then less so, finally working the way he always worked, time forgotten. He couldn’t help it.
One of the phone calls he returned was from Professor Uzig, inviting Nat to the traditional Philosophy 322 dinner at his house, Saturday at seven.
“Thanks, but-” said Nat.
“It’s a requirement, actually,” said Professor Uzig. “And you might even win the prize.”
“The prize?”
“In the cake. There’s always a prize in the cake.”
“Is this alcoholic?” said the quiet girl who’d tried to connect Nietzsche and domestic violence.
“Kir?” said the hired waiter, passing out drinks in the great room of Professor Uzig’s house. “Yes, ma’am.”
She put her glass back on his tray.
Professor Uzig had a big brick house on College Hill, surprisingly big, surprisingly luxurious, inside and out. A fire blazed on a stone hearth brought from Provence, a portrait of the professor by a famous painter Nat thought he’d heard of hung on the wall, and there were other similar details, pointed out by the host. Professor Uzig was wearing one of those silk things-ascot? foulard? — around his neck, the first time Nat had seen one off the movie screen. Now, having witnessed the scene between the waiter and the girl, the professor, his back to the fire and his students around him, was telling a story about a recent faculty party where some new TA had thought that in loco parentis meant “like a crazy parent.”
Everyone laughed, some more confidently than others. The whole class was there, all dressed up except the Kurt Cobain fan, probably making a statement, and Nat, who hadn’t known. The two of them, in their jeans, stood together next to the shrimp. “What’s this kir shit?” said the Kurt Cobain fan.
“Wine and something else.”
“Think it would be all right to ask for a beer?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
�
�I get an F and lose my scholarship.”
Nat laughed.
“You on scholarship too?” asked the Kurt Cobain fan.
“Yeah.”
“Went to a public high school?”
“Yeah.”
“Been to Europe?”
“No.”
“I’m Ferg.”
“Nat.”
“I know,” said Ferg. “Want to see something?”
“Sure.”
He led Nat out of the great room, into the library. Books from floor to ceiling, a table covered with papers, periodicals, correspondence, and on a pedestal a bust of Nietzsche, his walrus mustache resembling, in bronze, the armament of an unusual animal. Ferg took a book off a shelf, leafed through, handed it to Nat.
An Inverness course catalog, twenty-five years old, opened to the philosophy section. Philosophy 322, Professor Uzig. Nothing had changed but the name of the course: Superman and Man: Friedrich Nietzsche and Bob Dylan.
“Can you believe it?” said Ferg.
“Pretty funny,” said Nat.
“Funny? You call bait-and-switch funny? He’s been perpetrating a consumer fraud for twenty-five years. I’m seriously thinking of filing a formal complaint to the academic dean.”
“Ask for the beer instead,” Nat said.
Ferg glared at him. “I won’t stop there,” he said, and left the room.
Nat saw more catalogs on a higher shelf, wondered whether there were any from a really long time ago, say, 1919. He was reaching up when he felt someone in the room behind him, knew it was Izzie even before he turned.
“I brought you this,” she said; a glass of beer. Izzie wore black pants, black turtleneck, black headband. Walks in beauty like the night: that was the phrase that popped into his mind. It now made perfect sense.
“I don’t want anything, thanks.” He hadn’t touched alcohol since Patti left, didn’t want to.
She nodded, as though he’d confirmed some impression. “You’re mad.”
“No.”
Nat saw that the beer was trembling in its glass. Izzie put it down. “You blame me for… Patti.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I didn’t even know she existed.”
“Grace didn’t tell you?”
Crying Wolf Page 17
