The Wishbones

by Tom Perrotta

  He found himself thinking, for some reason, about a news item he'd followed a while back, the story of a young woman from Long Island who disappeared shortly before her wedding. She'd gone out to the mall on a Tuesday night and simply vanished. Sick with worry, her family and fiancé pleaded for her safety on the eleven-o'clock news. One of her sisters talked about how excited the missing woman was about her upcoming wedding.

  “It was her dream,” the sister said, smiling through her tears. “A June wedding to the man she loved.”

  “She's a level-headed girl,” her fiancé told a reporter. He was an ordinary-looking guy with glasses and a mustache, doing his best to be brave. “She never went anywhere without telling someone.”

  A few days later, long after it seemed certain that something terrible had happened, the cops reported that the missing woman had been located alive and well in Canada, where she'd fled to escape a marriage she couldn't face. Her family seemed stunned by this turn of events, perhaps more stunned than they would have been if her partially clothed body had been discovered in a shallow grave in a wooded area behind the mall. Dave remembered watching a second interview with the shattered fiancé standing in the doorway of his parents’ house, choking out a barely intelligible apology to the “level-headed girl” who'd left the country to get away from him.

  “I'm sorry if I pressured you,” he sobbed. “You could have said something. You didn't have to go scaring us all to death.”

  At the time, Dave hadn't given the story a lot of thought. It was just one of those incidents you shake your head over and then shove to the back of your mind. But now he found himself wondering. Did the woman have a lover in Canada? Had she been planning her escape for a long time, or had the idea just come to her in a desperate flash as she walked through the mall parking lot? Where was she now? Had her family forgiven her? What about the fiancé? There were so many loose ends to consider, he didn't even realize Gretchen was speaking until her words had shot right past him.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “The curry,” she told him, enunciating as though he were hard of hearing. “I asked if you liked the curry.”

  As if she hadn't just broken up with him inside the Karma House, Gretchen let Dave hold her hand as they made their way downtown toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The fresh air seemed to have cheered her up, and she'd decided that she couldn't stomach the thought of descending into the subway on such a beautiful night.

  “Why don't we just walk?” she suggested. “It's only a couple of miles.”

  A couple of miles didn't sound like “only” to Dave, but he had no desire to argue. It was her birthday; by definition, whatever made her happy was okay with him. Besides, a long walk would give him that much more time to work his way back into her good graces before they got to her place and had to face the inevitable question of whether he was going or staying. The hand-holding seemed like a step in the right direction, a step away from the gloomy alternative of a lonely drive back to New Jersey, where no one expected him anyway.

  Their path took them west and then south, onto a familiar stretch of the Bowery. Dave experienced a peculiar, almost teen-aged sense of vindication as they walked past CBGB's, as though the very sight of it negated the lies he'd told earlier in the day. See, Mom, I told you. A cluster of spiky-haired punks stood in ripped T-shirts and combat boots outside the door, passing a cigarette in a circle and halfheartedly scowling at the people who passed. They looked sad and defiant at the same time, as though they understood as well as anyone that they'd missed their moment by twenty years and had no one left to shock.

  The streets grew more deserted as they approached Canal. Gretchen seemed unconcerned, but Dave's urban danger monitor went on red alert. He felt deeply vulnerable, a short, slightly out-of-shape white guy dressed for a night out, holding hands with a taller woman in a pretty dress. There might as well have been a “Mug Me” sign taped to his back. He didn't allow himself to relax until they'd crossed safely into Chinatown, where the pedestrian traffic was thicker and it wasn't unusual, even at this time of night, to see an old woman walking alone, multiple plastic bags suspended from each hand.

  “I love this city,” he said. “It's incredible. You cross the street or turn a corner and the next thing you know, you're in another world.”

  “Why don't you move here then?”

  “I always wanted to.”

  “So do it.”

  There was nothing flip about this suggestion. Her voice was soft, almost fearful; she understood the magnitude of what she was asking him to consider. Dave thought about the place he and Julie had rented on Pine Avenue, a nondescript house on a sleepy street, the quietly predictable life it seemed to embody.

  “I missed my moment. I should have come here ten years ago.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  “Chicken,” he said, humbled by his own adjective. “I wasn't up to it.”

  They walked past a Chinese video store, the front windows plastered over with posters of scantily clad women and ferocious martial artists, barechested warriors confronting a hostile world with nothing but their hands, their feet, and their expressions of furious, almost insane determination. Gretchen squeezed his hand.

  “It's never too late to get some courage,” she told him.

  Dave had known for some time that there was a pedestrian walkway on the Brooklyn Bridge, but he'd never set foot on it until that night. The effect was breathtaking, nothing at all like driving across: there you were, Brooklyn ahead, skyline behind, moon above, lights all around, traffic and water below. Swooping, strung with cables, the bridge reminded him of a gigantic harp, humming a single, soothing note. The walkway wasn't crowded, but it wasn't deserted either. Hand-in-hand, Dave and Gretchen wove their way through the complex pattern of late-night joggers and bike riders, strolling couples, briefcase-toting professionals, packs of teenagers, and one spectacularly unconvincing platinum-wigged transvestite wobbling his way toward Manhattan atop three-inch stiletto heels.

  “So I'm thirty,” Gretchen said, shaking her head in what appeared to be genuine dismay. “Is this possible?”

  “Oh, it's definitely possible,” he assured her.

  “I don't feel different,” she complained. “I expected to feel different.”

  “Different from what?”

  “From the way I felt all through my twenties.”

  “What way was that?”

  She laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

  “Like a bad poet with a lousy job, no boyfriend, and barely enough money to pay the rent.”

  “You're not a bad poet.”

  “I'm not a good one,” she said, shooting him a sharp sidelong glance. “Believe me, I stopped kidding myself on that score a long time ago.”

  “Well, you do have a boyfriend,” he ventured, after a few uncomfortable seconds had gone by.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Dave could feel the unhappiness radiating from her like heat from a bad sunburn, and realized that he had to do something fast. He stopped short and pulled her against him, right there on the walkway, and kissed her. She responded with way more enthusiasm than he expected or deserved. The kiss went on and on; a couple of teenaged guys whistled at them and some others offered obscene shouts of encouragement, but not even that was enough to unseal their spicy mouths. He felt the world falling away, until it seemed as though there were nothing anywhere but that small patch of bridge, the two of them suspended, almost in the air, high above the East River, sharing a desperate kiss halfway between one place and another.

  They were both exhausted by the time they got back to her place. The walk was longer than she remembered, ending with a laborious twenty-minute climb to the top of Park Slope.

  “Come to think of it,” she said, “I've only done this going into Manhattan. It goes a lot faster when you're heading downhill.”

  “There's a concept for you.” Dave didn't mean to snipe, but his feet were killing him. He was wearing black
dress shoes that he'd bought the previous year but had never properly broken in. A raw spot had opened at the top of his right heel that screamed out in protest every time he lifted his foot. He thought sympathetically of the transvestite on the bridge. “If I'd known we were going on a hike, I would've worn sensible shoes.”

  “Poor baby,” she laughed. “Come upstairs and I'll make it better.”

  This invitation came more easily than Dave had expected, despite the passion generated by the kiss on the bridge, but he was in no position to savor his victory until he'd mounted the three flights of stairs to her apartment, yanked his shoes off in the living room, and propped his aching, sweaty feet on top of the coffee table. Even then, his first thought was less of romance than of how good it would feel, after a cold drink or two, to collapse on her futon and simply go to sleep.

  She brought him some ice water from the kitchen and sat down across the room, sprawling carelessly on the beat-up armchair. Her dress hiked up as she did so, knees splayed wide enough to reveal a glimpse of her silky black panties. Dave was normally a sucker for this sort of foreplay, but at the moment it commanded less of his attention than the incipient blister on his heel.

  “I'll be limping for the rest of the summer,” he informed her, gingerly probing the sore spot, which he figured to be the approximate size and shape of an eyeball.

  Gretchen didn't bother to stifle a yawn.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It's not that I'm not interested in your foot. Eleven o'clock just feels a lot later than it used to.”

  Dave nodded. “Especially after a few beers and a forced march. It's nature's way of telling you you're over thirty.”

  “Please,” she said. “Don't remind me.”

  “Sorry.”

  They sipped their water and traded tired smiles. Gretchen sat up straight, smoothing the front of her dress down over her thighs, then cast a skeptical glance in the direction of the bedroom.

  “Shall we?”

  “Sure,” he said. “If I can manage to stand up.”

  The Sight Of her undressing revived him. A burnt mouth, a blister, and a few harmless lies seemed like a small price to pay for the privilege of watching her drop her bra on the floor and turn to him, wearing nothing but her glasses. Remember this, he instructed himself. You have to remember this.

  Setting her glasses on the bedside table, on top of The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, she turned out the light and climbed in beside him. A peculiar calm settled over him, a concentrated feeling of alertness he only experienced playing music and making love, and even then, only when he was lucky and beyond distraction.

  She began with her foot, rubbing her heel up and down the length of his shin for a minute or more, setting a thoughtful, unhurried pace. She didn't kiss him or touch him with her hands, and he seemed to understand, without her saying a word, that his job was to lie there and let it happen. Her hand slipped into his mouth, four dry fingers at once, tasting of salt, skin, and curry. After exploring his mouth for a while, she removed her hand and pulled him to her breast.

  “Suck on it,” she whispered. “Don't be afraid.”

  Her voice was patient, almost instructional, and he did as he was told, not bothering to inform her that this activity was not one that frightened him in the least. He had the feeling she was trying to teach him something, but he didn't know what—a lesson about her body, perhaps, or maybe just something about following directions. In any case, he had a long time to think about it.

  “Now the other one.”

  He noticed a slight tremor in her voice, as if she were finally allowing herself to surrender control of the proceedings. She leaned forward, resting her head on top of his, her breath quick and fluttery in his ear. Time stretched out; he hoped he wasn't hurting her nipple. Then, without warning, she pulled herself away from him, falling backwards on the bed.

  “Lower,” she said, wriggling out from under him, guiding his head in that direction.

  She came the moment he tasted her, with a sharp cry and a quick shudder. The next thing Dave knew, she was on top of him, pressing on his chest as if performing CPR, and he was thrusting up into her, babbling a crazy flood of praise and gratitude.

  “Does this mean we're not broken up?” he asked, when he'd finally recovered the power of articulate speech.

  She took a while to answer; the pause gave him hope. But when she did there was sadness in her voice and a calm sense of finality.

  “I can't do this anymore. I have to protect myself.”

  “From what?”

  “From what?” she repeated in disbelief. “From I don't want to be sitting here a month from now, eating popcorn in front of some stupid rented movie while you're out getting yourself married. I'm thirty years old, Dave. I can't afford to be that pathetic anymore.”

  “Why don't you make plans with a friend?” he suggested. “Go out to a nice restaurant or something.”

  “That's just as bad. There's no way to behave on the night of your boyfriend's wedding that isn't pathetic. You're just pathetic by definition. And it'll get worse after that. Like what am I supposed to do when you tell me Julie's pregnant? Break out the champagne?”

  “Babies are a long way off.”

  “Not as long you think. Julie's the same age as you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She's ready,” Gretchen said firmly. “I know she is.”

  Dave didn't reply. The fatigue that had lifted during their lovemaking had returned with a vengeance. His body felt like a bag of cement. His thoughts were coming in like a bad radio station.

  “Does this really mean it's over for us?”

  “It was over before it started,” she told him. “We were just too stubborn to admit it.”

  WURSTHAUS

  The Genial Jim Show was taped at Larry's Wursthaus in downtown Union Village. Buzzy worked a couple of miles away at Prostho-Tek (“World's Largest Supplier of Quality Artificial Limbs”), so instead of heading home after work, he'd made arrangements for Dave to meet him at the Beer Barrel Inn, a quiet neighborhood bar across the street from the Wursthaus.

  Losing his license had turned every simple thing in Buzzy's life into a humongous pain in the ass. When JoAnn dropped him off at Prostho-Tek that morning, he'd had no choice but to lug his bass and garment bag into the factory with him, thereby guaranteeing that he'd spend a good part of the day listening to stupid comments from his co-workers.

  “What's in there? A machine gun?”

  “Goin’ on a trip?”

  “‘ Free Bird’!”

  On top of pretending to be amused by this crap, he had to approach four different people before he found someone willing to give him a ride downtown at the end of the day. And now here he was, entering a bar where no one knew him, facing the prospect of asking someone to keep an eye on his instrument while he changed clothes in the rest room. (He could've changed at work, but the idea of punching out in a tux was beyond consideration.) It was all so fucking humiliating. The only upside to the situation was knowing he could drink as much as he wanted without having to worry about getting home.

  Luckily, the place was empty except for the bartender, a pudgy guy sitting on the wrong side of the bar, sipping ice water and watching Oprah on the wall-mounted TV. He didn't look too thrilled about the idea of getting off his ass to serve Buzzy, but both of them knew he didn't really have a choice.

  “Double Early Times straight up,” Buzzy said, when the bartender had finally manned his battle station. He was an older guy, probably close to retirement age, with a thick broomlike mustache that reminded Buzzy of the guy in the Quaker Oats commercials.

  The drink appeared and for a few minutes they watched the show in companionable silence. It featured a bunch of good-looking women in revealing clothes talking earnestly about the need to pay the rent.

  “These are mother-and-daughter prostitute teams,” the bartender explained. “Some country, huh?”

  “It's those father-and-son teams that
are the really sick ones,” Buzzy replied, shaking his head as if deeply troubled.

  The bartender studied him for a few seconds, then chuckled uncertainly.

  “Good one,” he said, turning back to the screen.

  The bathroom was Small, but still relatively clean at that time of day. Buzzy was surprised to see that it boasted both a condom machine and a coin-operated cologne dispenser, amenities that seemed beside the point at a no-nonsense gin mill like the Beer Barrel.

  Getting dressed in a public rest room, particularly one as cramped as this, was a little like using a changing room in a clothing store, only more complicated. First there was the issue of whether or not you were willing to remove your shoes; then you had to deal with where to put the stuff you took off, and how to minimize the time spent standing around in your underwear. In the end, the process took twice as long as it did at home, and seemed even longer while it was happening.

  The bartender didn't bother to hide his amusement when Buzzy emerged. He stroked his bristly mustache, nodding with exaggerated approval.

  “Hey,” he quipped. “Into a nearby phone booth.”

  “That was no phone booth,” Buzzy told him, climbing back onto his stool and polishing off the dregs of his bourbon.

  The bartender smirked. “Formal wear becomes you.”

  “I'm a musician. My band's playing across the street in a couple hours.”

  “Across the street?”

  “The Wursthaus. Some cable-access show.”

  “You mean Genial Jim?”

  “That's the guy.”

  The bartender's eyes darted toward the door.

  “You a fan of his?”

  Buzzy shrugged. “Don't know the first thing about him.” He lifted his empty glass. “How about another?”

  “Genial Jim's something else,” the bartender told him, pouring a generous double.