—John Waite
“Missing You”
As our first college term unfolded, Erin quickly became a fixture in Mitchell’s life, and my own. I liked Erin, which helped ease any potential tension, since she dominated most of Mitchell’s time. I’d adjusted with grace to Mitchell’s absence (due to work or class) and to Erin’s presence in the apartment most evenings. The two of them wanted ample space to watch TV and to talk. Erin was friendly, a genuinely warm person who possessed many of the same qualities I’d seen in Jenny. Both women were straightforward people who cared about others. They were gracious and giving. They were modest—which only made them more attractive. And … they were smart.
One night while Mitch was busy getting ready for their date, I got a rare chance to talk to Erin alone. I asked about the one topic that had become foremost on my mind.
“What’s the latest on Jenny these days?” I asked, opening a Yoo-hoo and leaning against the kitchen door.
“She’s good. Busy. Jenny’s writing some monster paper that’s due at the end of the term, so she’s basically moved into the library. She says they ought to have cots in there.” Erin laughed. “Last weekend Jenny nodded off in a cubicle, and one of the janitors had to wake her up when the library was closing!”
“Is her paper on the sleep-ability of hard surfaces?”
“That must be it. She’s field-testing.”
I stepped into the living room and sat on the arm of Mitch’s chair, the one where he always sat to do his homework.
“Is she still in the research program?”
“Yeah, that’s the other thing. The department’s been sending teams into impoverished neighborhoods to canvass and talk with the families. They’re working to identify the most significant needs. I think there are about a half dozen students working on the project.”
“I’m surprised she’s got time for a social life.”
“She doesn’t. Dan’s always asking for more time. He’s lucky to get every other Friday.”
“Dan? I assume he’s her boyfriend?”
“Um … I wouldn’t say boyfriend … More like someone she’s dating. Dan’s a frat guy, very into Providence football.”
“A player?”
“Hardly. He and his frat buddies party Friday nights before game day and tailgate on Saturday at the stadium. Then they party even more when we win. It’s a guy thing, I guess.”
Erin dismissed the activities like they weren’t her scene. I wondered if they were Jenny’s.
“Dan’s invited her to some of the parties, but she hasn’t been able to go.”
Darn.
Mitch stepped out from the back bedroom, and when he did, Erin’s interest in our conversation vanished like a vapor. I thought Erin and I had been having a conversation; in reality, she’d only been waiting for Mitchell.
“You ready, honey?” Erin got up from the sofa with her coat and purse.
Honey? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.
“Ready as ever … and Jack, don’t wait up for us. We’ll be out having a life.”
“Mitchell!” Erin chastened him in good humor.
“You do that, Mitch. I’ll be here eating your mom’s Thanksgiving pie.”
A few days later, I heard a polite knock on the apartment door. Thinking it was just one of the guys from upstairs, I put the apple I’d been eating on a bookshelf and opened the door. It wasn’t anyone from upstairs, or even the beautiful Jennifer Carswell from across the hall. It was Jenny Cameron. She wore a yellow ski jacket with matching gloves and earmuffs. She looked as cute as … well … as Jenny.
We stood there in the doorway without saying a word. Then the tiniest smile appeared at the corners of her mouth, and she gave a wave with her glove. I couldn’t imagine what she might have come by to say—her confession of undying love topping my fantasy list.
“Hi, Jack,” she said. “Remember me?”
“I think so. Are you selling cookies?”
Her smile grew. “Not today. I’m here to pick up Erin’s book bag. She said she left it here the other day.”
Mitch mentioned that Erin had forgotten her book bag, but he’d neglected to say Jenny would be picking it up. I made a mental note to thank him later.
“Sure,” I said. “Come on in. Mitchell’s out, but I think I can help.”
She came in, rubbing her gloved hands together inside the toasty apartment.
“Thanks. This is no time of year to be without study notes.”
“I agree,” I said, retreating out of sight, looking for the book bag. “What have you been doing since turning twenty?”
“Working mostly. I’m wrapping up a social-science paper and applying for a summer internship.”
“Working, as in the sociology department?” I called out from Mitch’s desk where Erin’s book bag was in plain view on the chair.
“Yes, we’re collecting data. It’s a lot of research and polling. The team’s writing a grant proposal to assist single moms.”
I picked up the book bag and flung it over my shoulder. “I remember you mentioned something about that at the party.” I walked back into the living room. “How likely is the internship?”
“Well, it’s a long shot. It’s in New York, which is very expensive, particularly during the summer. They provide limited housing, so we’ll see.”
Silence filled the room. We stood several feet apart, both aware the object that had brought Jenny to the apartment was hanging over my shoulder.
She didn’t reach for the bag, and I didn’t offer it. The occasion for small talk had expired. I could either give her the bag and let her go, or say something.
“I’m fascinated with your work, Jenny. Do you think we could talk about it sometime?”
“There’s a lot of material in the sociology building on the second floor.” She politely gestured for the bag, and I gave it to her. Shifting its weight onto her shoulder, she said, “Do you know where—”
“I know where the sociology building is. I was more interested in finding out if we could spend some time together. To talk about the program, I mean.”
I shaped my words into balanced tones, mimicking the verbal patterns Jenny used when she spoke. I’d thought about her ever since the night of the party. Now standing face-to-face with her in my apartment, I needed to find out if she’d thought at all about me—if she’d felt anything that night.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” She looked directly at me. “I’m very busy with work and school, and I’m in a semiserious relationship.”
Just then the door opened, and Mitchell stepped in, nearly tripping over us with his awful, bad timing. “Oh! Sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting, Mitchell,” Jenny said. “I was just leaving.” And with that, Jenny stepped backward out the open door. Her eyes locked on mine. “Thanks for your help, Jack. Oh, and Mitchell … Erin said you can call her at work after five.”
“Right,” Mitch pulled off his coat, oblivious to the strange tension that floated in the air.
Jenny glanced back at me. “Thanks,” she said before disappearing down the stairs.
I shut the door and turned to Mitch. “Are you completely stupid?” I asked.
“What did I do? What are you so ticked about?”
“I’m ticked about …” My voice rose. I pulled the apple off the bookshelf. It had turned brown and dark. “That was Jenny, you may have noticed.”
“Yeah, I see her ten times a week.”
“Well, I don’t see her ten times a week.” I pointed the brown apple toward the door. “But I sure would like to. And you just interrupted the first conversation we’ve had in a month.”
The more time passed, the more silly it was to still have feelings about a girl I barely knew. “I don’t know if you’ve picked up on any of this, but she’s … she’s …” I stumbled.
“Jack!” I heard Mitchell laugh. He had the expression he wore when he thought I was being a moron. “It�
�s all right to like somebody.”
I rolled my eyes, sneering and mouthing his words with silent sarcasm. I grunted, grabbed my coat, and stormed out. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw a familiar yellow coat. Jenny. I slowed my gait.
“Our meetings always seem to come in pairs,” I said.
“So it seems. I was coming back up to see you.” Jenny stepped closer. A fragile snow tumbled from the silent heavens. “I know I’ve said something like this before, but I think I keep coming off as abrupt and impolite, which I don’t mean to do, and I want to apologize.”
“I’ll let you make it up to me,” I said.
“I seem to always run into you when I’m involved or in a hurry. The worst times. I wanted to say I’m sorry if I seem aloof or unfriendly.”
“I don’t know you well,” I said, “but I’ve already decided that aloof and unfriendly from you is better than friendly and warm from anyone else.”
She looked genuinely flattered. “You’re sweet,” she said, still giving cues that she wasn’t interested. One doesn’t have to understand love to understand rejection.
“Why won’t you go out with me?” I asked, opting for the direct approach.
“It’s true this is a busy time of life,” she said, her words soft and measured. “And I have been seeing someone, although I think that’s probably not the case anymore. But the reason I won’t go out with you is …” She paused. Delicate specks of snow fell onto her hair. “I’m sorry … This really isn’t the best time or place to have this conversation.”
“And when might that time be?” I asked.
“Are you free tonight to come by Lillian Hall? If you can’t make it, I’ll understand. It’s just I’m in a rush now, and all the words I’d like to use aren’t lining up like I want them to. If you could come by tonight, that would give me time to collect my thoughts.”
“I can be free tonight,” I said.
Large, heavy snowflakes landed on her eyelashes and melted on her cheeks. She nodded.
“Good. I need to get back on my way, but I’ll see you tonight. All right?”
“All right.”
I watched her walk up Burrows Avenue, yellow parka fading into the white-dotted blizzard.
“Jenny,” I yelled when she reached the corner.
She turned around to look back.
“Don’t get too tired of apologizing. These have been the best conversations.”
She smiled and waved, her light piercing through the muddle of the snowstorm. I wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
~ FOURTEEN ~
I am the eye in the sky
Looking at you
I can read your mind.
—Alan Parsons Project
“Eye in the Sky”
I rode the hotel elevator down from the seventh floor and stepped into the grand lobby, looking particularly sharp in my new tailored clothing. On Friday night the atrium had reverberated with the sounds of conference attendees and their business associates mingling in the cocktail lounge. On Saturday evening one lone attendant stood behind the desk, happily engaged in a phone conversation with someone whom I presumed was his girlfriend. Except for some Muzak version of a Kool and the Gang song dripping through hidden speakers, the lobby was dead quiet.
Outside I asked the doorman to hail a cab for me. He blew once on his whistle, and the only taxi at the stand switched on its low beams and rolled toward us.
“Where to?” the doorman asked.
“I’m not sure. Dinner somewhere,” I said and climbed into the backseat of the taxi.
“You like Italian?”
“Love it.”
The doorman spoke to the taxi driver “Take this gentleman to Antonio’s.” He tapped twice on the roof of the cab, and we were off.
A few minutes later the taxi pulled up in front of a small Italian restaurant—the only establishment open on the block. “Antonio’s” was written in green neon script above a large plate-glass window. I paid the cab driver and went inside.
The restaurant was smoky and loud. It was packed with patrons, but not the college crowd I was most familiar with. The ceiling was low, multiplying the noise, making twenty tables sound like forty. It was like walking inside radio static.
Waiters in white shirts hustled from kitchen to dining room, delivering food like obedient drones. A skinny, vacant-faced man of about thirty-five peered through the kitchen’s double doors and called out to me.
“How many?”
“One.”
His eyes ran the length of the room looking for an open spot. He flagged down a striking black-haired woman holding a full bar tray.
“Vivian, you got a table for one?”
She shook her head like he had to be joking.
Then he called back to me, “’Bout twenty minutes. Have a seat at the bar.”
I nodded my head the way you’re supposed to when accepting orders. The deadpan man disappeared back through the kitchen doors, and I took a seat on a red swivel barstool. I ordered a glass of red wine, though I’m not much of a drinker. Well, I’d be no drinker at all except that I was trying to abide by my doctor’s recommendation of a glass of red wine now and then. He said it would do me good. This would be my fourth glass in about six months.
I looked at the other men and women at the bar and wondered how long it’d been since I’d sat in a place like this. The unavoidable smoke, the free-flowing alcohol and equally free-flowing conversation. I looked to see if I knew anyone but didn’t recognize a face.
Most of the guys at the bar were engrossed in the Providence football game on the small color TV mounted high behind the bar. We were ahead by ten points against Ohio. I learned early on in Providence that we’re required to hate Ohio. At least when it comes to sports.
Conversation tumbled out with ease among the TV watchers. “Do not fumble! Two minutes on the clock. If they don’t give up a touchdown here, it’s the best second half we’ve played.”
Derek Smith, a Providence student who had volunteered in Norwood, was the Badger’s starting tight end. With two minutes on the clock, Derek caught a missile off the arm of quarterback Amos Bantley at the thirty and sliced through three defenders into the end zone. It was poetry.
“YES! YES! YES!” Antonio’s was suddenly transformed into a sports bar filled with the sounds of boys being boys. Diners who hadn’t been paying attention to the game looked over at the TV.
“Hey, turn up the sound. Turn up the sound!”
The bartender lifted the remote and boosted the sound of raucous cheers from Providence stadium, not five miles east of us. After a long kickoff and a strong defensive stand, we took possession and skillfully ran out the clock. The Badgers left the field victors, 27–10.
The screen went to a commercial, and the sound was muted. Those of us at the bar began our analysis of the brilliance we’d just witnessed. Joe, the man farthest away from me, got a funny cockeyed look on his face.
“Hey …” he said, pointing his finger in my direction. “Hey, aren’t you the guy who wrote that book?”
Suddenly I felt like an outsider. I was glad he didn’t say “the guy from Time magazine.”
“Depends on which book you’re talking about.”
Joe smiled. “You know the one I’m talking about … The book about poor people here in Providence? The one that sold all those copies, number one and all that?”
“Laborers of the Orchard.”
“Yeeeeeah! I thought it was you.” Joe said, “You’re on the cover of Time magazine!”
I nodded, not sure what to say. I hoped Joe’s excitement would fade quickly, taking the sound of his voice with it. I wished the bartender could mute Joe like he’d muted the TV. But Joe spun his chair to the nine-o’clock position and stared straight at me. “What are you doing down here?”
“Just getting a bite to eat,” I said, trying to make it sound as normal as it was. Joe spun his chair around the other way and yelled back to the kitchen.
> “Hey, Antonio! Lookie here.”
Antonio stepped out of the kitchen to see what was causing the commotion.
“It’s that writer guy! The one that sold all them books!” Joe turned back to me. “Hey, what’s your name?”
Antonio looked at me. The waitress looked at me. Everyone in the now-quiet room looked at me.
“Jack Clayton,” I said to him in a near whisper, pretending ours was still a private conversation. “You can call me Jack.”
“Jack Clayton!” he shouted, his volume doubled by the drinks he’d already consumed. “You are awesome, man! What you did for those people! Hey, and don’t worry about the wine, okay, pastor? Nobody’s gonna say nothing.”
“I’m not a pastor, Joe, and it’s okay for me to have a glass of wine.”
The buzz in the restaurant ground to a halt, the brake cord pulled by one of its patrons. The dark-haired man with the mustache turned out to be an Antonio, but not the Antonio. Just then, the Antonio stood up from his table in the back and spoke to me from across the room.
“Are you Jack Clayton?” The beefy sixty-year-old man asked, closing the last of the open mouths in the room, including Joe’s.
“Yes,” I said from my seat at the bar.
Big Antonio pointed his index finger at me, then dotted it around the room. “Anything you want tonight,” he said with authority, “is on the house. Whatever you want.” Then to the other Antonio, “You take care of him.”
The silent, serious-faced Antonio gave the owner an exaggerated nod of compliance and snapped his fingers at a busboy now speeding up the clearing of an open table.
“Yeah!” Joe shouted, tossing his fist in the air the same way he’d done when Derek Smith had scored that touchdown. A few other customers cheered from their booths. These people wanted to celebrate. Antonio continued talking.
“What’s brings you down here by yourself tonight?”
“Someone wanted me to have the best Italian food in the city, so he sent me here.”
With that, the room exploded in applause, patrons celebrating not only the good food but also that they were at the right place at the right time.
Antonio smiled, pleased with my answer. He raised his hands, soaking in the applause, a confirmation of what he’d been telling his customers for years.
Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance Page 10
