Better Than Running at Night

by Hillary Frank

  Of course you are, I thought. His replica is right beside you.

  But how did she ever get through losing her entire family? I wondered what the other relatives I'd never met were like.

  Phil cut a piece of chicken and spread chopped liver on it. He raised it in the air and said, "Without this woman, I would've forgotten to save the chopped liver for the meal. She's always looking out for me!"

  Grandma smiled at him.

  My parents shot each other looks, as if to say, What happened to Grandpa?

  He never liked chopped liver.

  A Murderer's Advice

  Ivan was there. In New York City. That's what the lady at the Met said on the phone.

  I wished I knew how to drive the subway, so I could make it go faster.

  At the Met, I passed the rest of the nineteenth-century Russian paintings. They and the cooing crowds were blurs in my peripheral vision. Finally, I got to the room of Repins.

  There he was. Larger than life. Grasping his bleeding son on Oriental rugs. I sat on a bench in front of him.

  Ivan was the only one who would understand what I was going through.

  "I shouldn't have done it," I wanted to say to him.

  "Tell me about it," he would've said, but in Russian.

  "Look at us. Two losers," I'd say. "Your son, my virginity—gone forever."

  But that's where my fantasy ended.

  What could Ivan say to that? "Oh, honey, you've got a lot to learn" or, "Come back when you've killed someone. Then we'll talk."

  Through the Wall

  "She doesn't have that sad look anymore, but she still looks sad," Dad said.

  I heard him through the wall, talking to my mom, as I tried to fall asleep.

  "She'll be fine," Mom said. "She's adjusting to her new life."

  "I think she's still not fitting in."

  "Well, I don't think the pot is gonna do it."

  "Can you imagine how cool we would've thought our parents were if they'd given us pot?"

  "We might have thought they were a little strange."

  "I just wish we could communicate. You know, real father-daughter bonding. But she always gets so sarcastic on me."

  "You don't seem to mind."

  "I laugh it off so she doesn't think it bothers me. And so we don't get in a fight."

  "Maybe that's part of the problem."

  "No, the problem is that she's not mine," he said. "That's always been the problem."

  I'd never heard him admit I wasn't his child before. I pressed my ear against the wall.

  "Oh come on," Mom said. "That's never bothered you."

  "Marsha, it bothers me every day. Every day. Every time I look at her, trying to imagine whose features she has." His voice got closer, then went farther away again. He must have been pacing. "But I never say anything about it because I know I can't change it."

  "She might as well be yours. You raised her."

  "I know," he said. "But I wish she was really mine."

  "That's a fine wish," she said, "but I don't think that would change the communication problems you're having."

  "I do. I think she wouldn't be so hostile toward me. She knows, whatever I say, I'm just a stand-in."

  "I think if you try getting closer to her with something other than narcotics, she might respond more favorably."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know," she said. "This is something you'll have to come up with on your own." The bed squeaked. She must've sat up. "Or else it won't be genuine. Maybe you should stop thinking about what you liked doing as a kid, and think about what she likes to do."

  "You're right," he sighed. "As usual."

  His footsteps came up to the wall between us, then stopped.

  "I don't know why you're getting so worked up, anyway," she said. "We never would've been able to have her on our own. Not with your condition."

  This was the first I'd heard of a "condition." I'd always assumed they didn't have more kids because the others would've been more purebred than me and I'd feel bad.

  "I know, I know." His pacing picked up again, faster this time.

  "And if it wasn't for Ellie showing up the way she did, we may never have gotten married. She's the one who brought us together."

  "Marsha, everything you're saying makes so much sense. And I've run it all through my head millions of times. That's why I've never said anything about it. But still..." He paced close to the wall. "I just ... I just wish it were different."

  A Closer Look

  My dad took the next day off, since I was leaving New York that night. I asked him to go to the Met with me in the morning.

  He raised his eyebrows. "What, has someone discovered a new way to paint naked ladies?"

  "Seriously," I said. "There's something I want you to see."

  It was early, so there weren't many people at the museum yet.

  "Aren't we going to look at the rest of the show?" he asked as I marched straight for my favorite room.

  "Later."

  We sat on the bench before Ivan.

  "Reminds me of your old work," he said.

  "It's way better than my old work."

  For a long time, we didn't talk. The room was empty, except for us and a guard.

  I don't know what my dad was thinking, but he didn't stop looking at the painting. He didn't get antsy either, like he usually does at museums.

  When he finally did get up from his seat, it wasn't to make a beeline for the exit, but to take a closer look at Ivan's eyes.

  Wild Trip

  "Where's your beret?" Mom asked when we came home.

  "What beret?" Dad said.

  "You two were gone so long, I thought maybe Ellie had turned you into a fanatical art lover."

  "Well," he said, "we spent most of our time looking at Ellie's favorite painting. Then we saw the rest of the show and waited in a long line to buy this book."

  He took the Repin book out of my hands.

  "I wanted to get Ellie a souvenir," he said as he sat down at the table. He opened the book and flipped through the pages.

  "You sure you didn't get the book for yourself?" She winked at me.

  "No. It's a present for Ellie," he said without looking up. "I'm just trying to find that painting she likes. You've got to see this guy's eyes. They're bugging out like he's on some wild trip or something."

  He finally found the right page and showed my mom.

  "That's a nice one," she said. "Hey, El, you want to help me get some food for your last home-cooked dinner?"

  "Sure."

  When we returned from the store, Dad was still looking at the book.

  I decided to stay home the rest of the weekend.

  Messages

  When I got back to school I opened my backpack and found a box of condoms in the front pocket with my pencils and toothbrush. Thanks, Mom.

  There were six messages on my machine. One from my mother, calling to make sure my trip was all right, and the rest from Nate. They went like this:

  It's Nate.

  Give a call when you get in.

  Hey, where are you? Thought you'd be back by now.

  So, uh, you were supposed to call when you got back, right? Call me.

  Come on, it's not that bad, Ellie. I want to make up with you. Don't be so stubborn.

  All right, this is the last message I'm leaving. If I don't hear from you by the end of the day, I'm assuming we're not friends.

  I was two days later than I planned. Big deal.

  I automatically picked up the phone to call him back; that's what you do when someone leaves you a message. It's what I said I'd do on the machine.

  But I hung up after dialing the first three numbers.

  My hands were clammy and my armpits were sweating.

  I sat by the phone for about ten minutes, putting my hand on the receiver and then removing it again.

  The phone rang.

  I let it ring four times and just as the machine began to chime in,
I picked it up.

  "Ellie. I missed you," he said. "I need to see you."

  An ambulance whined on his end of the line.

  "I thought that was the last time you were calling."

  "I lied."

  The ambulance crescendoed as it passed my window.

  Snow was settling over the streets.

  "Can I come over?" he asked.

  "Well ... okay."

  Missed

  He held me and kissed my entire face. Told me he'd never missed anyone this much before. He was surprised by how often he thought about me. How clearly he could imagine the smell of my shampoo. How many times he held conversations with me in his head.

  Melted snowflakes dripped off his jacket.

  "Clarissa's been here since Thursday and all I can think about is you," he said.

  "When did she leave?" I asked tentatively.

  "Well, she's still here. I told her I had to go see you because you just got back."

  "And she was cool with that?"

  "Pretty much," he said. "She knows we can't spend all our time together. It would be too intense."

  "And does she know ... what things are like between us?"

  "Sure, we tell each other about everyone we date. I mean, it's hard to go so long without getting some. She knows that. Even a month is pushing it. What she doesn't know is how hard I've fallen for you."

  "Oh."

  "I want you to get to know her," he said. "It'll make me feel better."

  "I don't think that's a good idea," I said. "For anyone."

  "It's up to you," he said. "I just think if the two of you got along, this would be much easier. We'd all have some sort of understanding."

  "I'm not sure that's an understanding I'd like to have."

  "Fine," he said. "But if you change your mind, the offer still stands."

  He hugged me briefly before he left.

  About an hour later, I called him.

  "I'm coming over," I said, pulling my boots on.

  It was still snowing lightly.

  "Great," he said. "We'll be here."

  I decided I wanted to find out about this girl. This girl who would let him get away with anything.

  What's Up with the Fire Hydrants

  She was painting her nails iridescent pink as Nate and I flipped through his sketchbook. The three of us were sitting on his futon. We came to a page with a fire hydrant morphing into a woman crying.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "I did that from an idea I had about Clarissa."

  She put the nail polish on the floor. "That's me?" she asked, inching closer.

  "Well," he said, "I saw a fire hydrant going off one day and when I got home I realized how much it reminded me of you when you cry."

  "Oh." She pursed her lips, then resumed painting.

  The radiator banged.

  Nate got up to go to the bathroom. After his footsteps ceased and the door clinked shut, Clarissa said, "I wondered what was up with the fire hydrants." She wrinkled her brow and looked at a papier-mâché model of a life-size fire hydrant, the one that had been in the fountains show. "Did you know what those were about before?"

  "No," I said. "You've heard as much as I have."

  With all the fuss about the Sloane Collection, I'd almost forgotten about the fire hydrants.

  The toilet flushed and Nate came back.

  "Damn!" Clarissa shouted at her nails. "I fucked up again!"

  "It's no big deal, cutie," Nate said, rubbing his hand over the shaved side of her head.

  "You just don't understand," she said. "Ellie understands, don't you Ellie?"

  "I haven't painted my nails in a long time," I said, shrugging.

  The radiator banged over and over in the same pattern as it hissed steam.

  "Well, you probably remember that it looks stupid when nail polish gets on your skin," she said.

  "It never bothered me much."

  Nate sat between us and put his arm around her. "You don't have to get worked up about something so trivial," he said.

  She shook his arm off and whined, "It's not trivial!" Then she ran to the bathroom and kicked the banging radiator before slamming the door.

  "Oh, man, not again," Nate said as he ran after her. He tried the knob, but to no avail. "Come on, Clarissa. Don't be an idiot."

  No answer.

  He walked back toward me. "I give her twelve minutes," he said, looking at his watch, like this was some private joke between the two of us. "How about you?"

  "I have no idea."

  I stood by the window. It was snowing harder than before. A couple of inches had already accumulated.

  He massaged my neck.

  "You never overreact like that," he said.

  "Maybe sometimes I should."

  We watched the snow fall. His hand crept up to my head.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked.

  "I should go," I said, lifting his hand from my scalp. "I'm obviously not spending the night or anything."

  "That might be fun." He grinned.

  I had this urge to gouge my elbow into his ribs.

  "No," I said sternly. "It wouldn't."

  When the bathroom door cracked open, Nate checked his watch. "Twelve minutes!" he announced, and greeted Clarissa with a nuzzling embrace.

  He had his back to me as he hugged her. I grabbed my jacket and snuck to the door without a sound. Clarissa's eyes followed me, looking satisfied.

  I didn't say good-bye or wait to see if he turned to watch me leave. I only left the door wide open, letting the drafty air take my place.

  Tailored Tracks

  With a running start, I could slide about ten feet in the slippery snow. The sky had just reached its peak of darkness and the final flakes fell while the stars flickered.

  After sliding a few times, I walked, compressing the snow under my soles. It squeaked like clean hair, but louder. The flakes were so big you could almost see the snowflake shape.

  I made sure to place each step I took in a spot untouched by another shoe. That way my footprints would be as defined as possible.

  I had a feeling it was the last time I'd be taking that path.

  Should Have

  Sitting in my bed that night, I stared off into space. My room was cold, and I wished I could've had some extra body heat.

  Maybe when Clarissa's gone, I thought.

  No, I told myself, she'll be back. And if not her, then someone else.

  I picked my sketchbook up from the floor and drew everything I remembered about Nate. I even drew his paintings. When I was done drawing, it was clear: We weren't right for each other. Too many of my drawings were about the other girls in his life.

  I should have elbowed him in the ribs.

  Rage Against Human Dictionaries

  "That's it, that's it, clear 'em all out of here," Gregg directed. "We won't be needing those." He sat on a drawing table in front of the chalkboard. His lanky legs dangled and he was gripping the front of the desk.

  A bunch of hair-dyed, tattooed, pierced students were pushing the rest of the drawing tables against the wall. The legs screeched as they dragged across the linoleum floor.

  It was my first day of real NECAD classes; Foundation Two. Gregg Cramroy was supposed to be teaching us advanced drawing, 2-D design, and 3-D design. We met in a classroom in the design building.

  Gregg's jet-black hair was combed and gelled into perfect one-inch spikes and his rectangular metal glasses gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

  I helped a girl with fishnet stockings push one of the last tables aside.

  When the center of the room was finally empty, Sam walked in. He was the only person in the class I knew. He was also the only one aside from me with natural hair color and no body art. How did these people find time to keep up such appearances with all the work we were expected to do?

  "Hey, Sam," I said. "How was your week off?"

  "Really good," he said, pulling his cap up, rather than down. With the
cap covering his eyes most of the time, I'd never noticed that there were brown bursts in the center of his blue irises.

  Gregg clapped his hands twice and shouted, "Okay, everyone, grab a chair! We'll be putting them against the wall, too, soon, but you might as well be comfortable for now."

  We all pulled chairs into the clearing in the center of the room.

  "I'm Gregg," he said, "for those of you I haven't met."

  His legs were swinging while he spoke.

  "Now, we need to straighten out a little misunderstanding before we start. This catalog"—he waved the NECAD course catalog in the air—"this catalog says I'll be teaching you the second semester of drawing, two-D, and three-D. Well, it looks like that won't be happening."

  He slowly shredded the booklet with his hands.

  A guy with a blue mohawk whooped.

  A girl in a pink babydoll dress and a barbell through her nose shouted, "Wicked!"

  "But we will work in here," Gregg continued. "Oh, we will work. But we'll be making real art!"

  More whooping. Even Sam let out a "Right on!"

  I didn't say a thing.

  "Let me tell you a bit about myself before we begin," Gregg said. "Ten years ago I went to a small art school in the Midwest. That school tried to drag me down, tried to kill my artistic impulses just like this school is trying to do. They had us drawing from casts of classical sculptures, they tried to teach us anatomy, to make us memorize all the terms for the muscles and bones. And you know what I said?"

  His legs were swinging harder.

  "I said to hell with it! I said I came here to express myself, not to become a human dictionary! And so I took one of those plaster casts and I threw it out the window and watched it smash into pieces on the pavement. Then a bunch of my buddies came and tossed some others out the window, and by the end of the night they were all gone. All gone. We were kicked out of school, and that was the beginning of my art career. I'm new here at NECAD, and I've come to free all of you, to make sure that none of you fall into the trap of becoming human dictionaries!"