Love May Fail

  Before I can stop myself, I say, “Ms. Kane, I don’t want to speak about things I know little about anymore, and this doesn’t change a thing regarding my ability to answer the first question—but that just might be a spark in your eye I see now.”

  When she smiles, a happy tear leaks out, and I instantly regret giving her hope. She doesn’t deserve it—she has done nothing but dream and look up at buildings with her suicidal former English teacher—and I know that hers will most likely be what Mr. Langston Hughes called a dream deferred.

  “Maybe there’s one hiding in your eye now too—a spark,” Portia says.

  I shake my head. “It’s a good dream for you, Ms. Kane. I hope you accomplish your goal. But this is your course, your dharma, if you will, not mine.”

  “You started it. You turned me on to this—literature, writing,” she says.

  I’m tempted to ask how many books she has read in the past year, how many words she has written, but I hold my tongue. This will all be over soon.

  She takes me to Central Park, and we buy warm cashews and hot dogs from a vendor and eat on a park bench, neither of us saying much, and then we stroll, people-watching and feeling a bit awkward about everything—both of us, I can tell, because Portia seems to be running out of steam herself.

  We watch the sun set through the barren trees, the dying light illuminating the melting piles of snow, and then we walk through darkness back to the hotel, order room service, and eat a light dinner in our suite before we resume drinking heavily from the mini fridge.

  Three or four airplane bottles in, Portia says, “You don’t believe I’ll publish a novel, do you?”

  “Plenty of people publish books every year,” I say, trying to skirt the question.

  “But never the daughters of hoarders—fatherless girls who grow up across the street from the Acme. No, they marry abusive men who discard them when they grow to be middle-aged and wrinkled.”

  “Perhaps you’ve had too many little bottles, Ms. Kane?”

  “Do you know people used to say we slept together when you were my teacher?”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “That, apparently, was the rumor. I just found out. Why do you think people would say that?”

  “Funny. I thought the rumor was that I was gay,” I say.

  “Are you?”

  “Would it matter to you?”

  “No. I just—I mean, I wish you had someone in your life, like a lover. It would make all of this easier.”

  “Saving my life?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was in love with Mrs. Harper, but she’s going to marry the butcher—and he doesn’t even know who Albert Camus is,” I say, and suddenly realize I am a bit drunk too. “I found out he popped the question right before you showed up. That and Albert Camus the dog’s suicide sort of triggered my . . . well, whatever we are in now.”

  “What did you love about Mrs. Harper?”

  “Her nose, mostly, I guess.”

  “What?” Portia laughs.

  I smile in spite of myself. “Mrs. Harper had a—well, a Jewish nose. And I have always been turned on by Jewish women, especially their noses, with the little bump. I don’t know why.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s a racist thing to say.”

  “That I love Jewish women?”

  “To say you love the bump in their noses, as if they only have one kind. You’d never say ‘I love the slanted eyes of Asian women.’ Or ‘the big asses of African women.’”

  “Um,” I say, not sure how to proceed, because those examples seem extreme.

  “Did you tell Mrs. Harper that you loved her?”

  “I never even spoke with her. She was the checkout lady at the local store. She rang me up hundreds of times, but I never said anything to her other than pleasantries.”

  “But you wanted to.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I did. Very much.”

  “There are other Mrs. Harpers in the world. Some of them have even sexier Jewish noses, you know. Bigger bumps.”

  I sip my wine.

  “You’re not dead yet,” Portia says to me. “There’s still time for love.”

  “And how did love work out for you?”

  “Shitty in the past, I admit, but I’m going to give love another go.”

  “Okay. You do that.”

  “The man who carries your Official Member of the Human Race card and reads it daily. Chuck Bass. You had him in your class back in ’eighty-eight. He put himself through college in his thirties and early forties by tending bar and taking out student loans. He’s looking for an elementary school teaching job. He has no money, lots of debt, and he takes care of his sister and her five-year-old son. Not exactly the best suitor on paper, but he has a spark in his eye, yes he does, and he loves you as much as I do.”

  I’m tempted to roll my eyes, but I manage to refrain. “I don’t even remember him. Sorry.”

  “He’s a lot like you,” she says.

  “Then run away from this Chuck,” I answer. “Seriously. You do not want to be yoked to a man like me.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” she says. “Too serious.”

  “Tomorrow is our last day together, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m still planning on returning to Vermont so I can kill myself. I want you to know that. And it’s not your fault. You should absolutely write your novel. Forget about me. Be with this Chuck Bass and make a good life for yourselves. Dedicate your novel to him, because—”

  “I have a good surprise for you tomorrow,” she says. “It’s going to be a game changer.”

  I look out the window and endure a very uncomfortable silence before I excuse myself and retire to my bedroom.

  I toss and turn all night. This trip was a mistake. I’m passing on my misery by allowing Portia to get her hopes up. My suicide will destroy her, and yet that’s not a good answer to the first question—or maybe I should say it’s not a good enough answer for me, when I am alone with my thoughts, finally unfettered from the ridiculous notions of former students.

  I rub my knees, because they ache tonight, probably from all the walking. I think about all of the metal in my body that will outlast my flesh and muscles and bones should I be buried—or maybe the metal will be found in my pile of ashes when I am cremated.

  So strange to think about that.

  Stranger yet to be in a presidential suite in this exclusive New York City hotel.

  “This woman is not going to take her defeat very well—that’s now certain,” I whisper to myself through the darkness.

  CHAPTER 16

  I choose death by breakfast again, the monkey suits come and go like androids, and Portia and I eat together in the dining room’s opulence, under the crystal chandelier, wearing our fluffy white bathrobes.

  The steak is even better than yesterday’s, somehow juicier, and I decide to consume all of it before I bring up the uncomfortable discussion I’ve been planning since four in the morning, because that’s when I woke up for the last time and tossed and turned until the sun rose. I’m worried about Portia, who seems to be glowing with dangerous confidence this morning, but I’m smart enough to savor this meat, because I am certain I will not have better in the few remaining days that I’ll be caning my way around this planet.

  Just as soon as I’ve swallowed the last bite I say, “I think it would be prudent if we parted ways now, and I caught a train back to Vermont before this gets any more complicated than it already is. Because there is nothing—”

  “Not a chance,” she says, and the light in her eyes fades a little. “I have you for three days. A deal is a deal.”

  “I don’t want to prolong this, Ms. Kane. And I don’t want you to get your hopes up. There is nothing I want, except to be left alone. Nothing.”

/>   “You just need to remember,” she says, and then sips her coffee. “Who you once were.”

  “It was a mistake to come with you,” I say. “I see that clearly now. I don’t know why I—”

  “Because some part of you, deep down inside, knows I’m right about you,” she says, looking out at Central Park glowing in the morning sun.

  “No. That’s not it,” I say, and then take a deep breath. “I’m not proud of this, but I think I came on this little adventure because I wanted to hurt one of my former students, as sadistic as that sounds. Wound you deeply the way Edmond Atherton wounded me, sans the baseball bat, of course. And this was a subconscious wish that was controlling me, but somewhere along the way it became conscious, and now I feel guilty about it and want to be open with you, protect you from any further pain. The conscious part of me wishes you no harm, and so I must protect you from my subconscious. Do you understand?”

  She’s looking at me as though I have just flashed her my private parts—half shock, half repulsion.

  “You can’t fool me,” she says. “This is just a trick.”

  “Listen, what you are trying to do is beautiful, but it makes you vulnerable. I know, because I used to live this way myself. The world broke me in a big way, and then I was harder—hard enough to want to do some breaking of others. And you’re a sweet, kind woman, Ms. Kane. I couldn’t sleep last night because I felt so guilty—and so I feel it’s best if we simply part ways now. Thank you for all you have done, for letting me know my class meant something to you. I wish you much luck with—”

  “I’m taking you to meet my mother today,” she says. “Whatever reason you had for coming, it doesn’t matter. It would mean a lot to me if you simply met my mother. Maybe that sounds bizarre to you, but I would be very grateful. After that I will drive you home to Vermont and leave you alone for good. You’ll be free and clear of me. I promise.”

  “You want me to meet your mother—the hoarder?”

  “She’s my mother.”

  “But why do you want me to meet her?”

  “Because—I can’t explain it, okay?”

  “I really don’t want to return to Haddon Township—I haven’t been there since, well . . . since this,” I say and hold up my cane.

  “I know I’m asking a lot, but we can make it there in time for dinner, and then after we eat with my mom, I’ll drive you directly home, right away. I won’t even sleep.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Ms. Kane. I’m sorry.”

  “Please.” She puts her hands together in prayer position. “I know it’s dumb, but I really just want the two of you to meet. She was in no condition to attend any school functions or back-to-school night, and I’ve told her so much about you. She’s not well, and I think she believes I made you up. I just want to show her that you exist.”

  “This is really important to you?”

  “It would mean a lot to me. If you’re going to disappear from the world, maybe you could do this one last kindness before you go? It’s a simple thing, really. Do it, and you will never hear from me again. I promise.”

  “Dinner with your mother and you—that’s it? I do this, and the game ends? You take me directly back to Vermont.”

  “And I forgive you for wanting to punish me,” she says, looking up from under her eyebrows like a wounded little girl.

  “Okay,” I say, against my better judgment.

  How can I refuse her this simple thing after what I just admitted?

  She takes so long packing her things and getting ready that I begin to wonder if she is intentionally stalling for some reason, but I enjoy my view of Central Park, watch the late-morning light climb the trees, and I don’t say anything when she finally emerges from her bedroom with her hair and makeup done.

  “Let’s get some lunch sent up and check out late, just to screw Ken a little more in the pocketbook,” she explains.

  “Sure,” I say, thinking this will all be over soon, if I can just be agreeable a little while longer.

  It’s half past one by the time we are back in the rental car, fighting Manhattan traffic. Portia hits buttons on the steering wheel until she finds the classical station. My old friend, the best cellist alive, is playing.

  I must make some emotional noise, because she says, “Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Mr. Vernon? Do you not like this music? I thought you liked classical, and—”

  “It’s Yo-Yo Ma,” I explain. “Suite for Solo Cello no. 4 in E-flat Major, BWV 1010, first movement, ‘Prelude.’ Bach, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “My dog, Albert Camus,” I say, missing him more than I have since Portia first found me choking to death on my own vomit, “this was one of his favorite pieces.”

  “Your dog loved Bach?”

  “He loved Yo-Yo Ma,” I explain, and then emotion floods my chest, and I can’t stop myself from crying. I turn my head away from her and pretend to look at New York passing by, but I’m making sniffling noises now.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sure Albert Camus was a great dog.”

  “He was the best friend I ever had,” I say, realizing how stupid I’m acting, crying over a dog.

  Yo-Yo Ma works his magic—transports me.

  And suddenly I’m with Albert Camus again in my Vermont kitchen, listening to our favorite cellist play Bach. I’m cooking us steaks as Albert Camus thumps out the beat against the wooden floor with his tail.

  In my mind, I bend down and scratch him under his chin and behind his ears the way he likes, until he stands up on his hind legs, paws at my chest, and licks my cheek in thanks.

  “Why did you jump out the window?” I ask him in my fantasy. “Why? We had such a good life together.”

  He looks up at me lovingly through his one eye. I told you already. I jumped to save you, like Clarence in It’s A Wonderful Life does to save George Bailey. And I think you should listen to this woman who is driving the car, in real life. She has a good heart. She loves you!

  “I’m done, Albert Camus. Got nothing left to give!”

  Then why not take a little, eh? he says. Learn from me. Did I ever refuse a treat or a scratch or a ride in the truck with the window rolled down? Never! And what did I have to give back in return?

  “Companionship!” I say. “You were the best friend I ever had.”

  We are still best friends—best friends forever, he says, and then licks me furiously all over my face as I close my eyes and laugh. Now stop being such a pussy! Let the girl help you.

  “Did you just call me a ‘pussy’?” I say, making the stupid air quotes with my fingers.

  Yes, I did, and it is the absolute worst thing a dog can call another dog. A pussycat. And you are acting like one. Snide. Selfish. Self-absorbed. An untrustworthy, taciturn pussycat. Be a dog, Master Nate. A true and good dog is affable and loving and kind and ready for adventure. Ready to piss on the entire world, marking every inch with his many drops of urine, which he believes to be inexhaustible!

  “This is getting a little weird, Albert Camus. Even for me. I must admit.”

  Use this new life. Mark it with the urine of your essence.

  “What did you just say?” Portia says a bit loudly.

  I open my eyes and look at her behind the wheel of the rental car, blinking several times as my mind wakes up and my eyes focus.

  “Did you just say something about ‘the urine of your essence’?” she says.

  “What?”

  “I think you may have been dreaming, but that’s disgusting. I’m stopping for coffee. Maybe you’d like some too.” She pulls into a rest stop off the highway, where we get some overpriced java and sip it quietly at a little plastic table as scores of faceless background people swarm about.

  “You’re almost done,” she says. “Al
most free of me.”

  I nod at her, suddenly exhausted.

  This is the longest I’ve been around another human being in many years, I suddenly realize. No wonder I’m so depleted of energy.

  There’s an endless slow-moving snake of traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, which makes me think of that old song by Simon and Garfunkel about counting cars on this very road, but as the hours creep by in interims of standstill and five-miles-per-hour, Portia’s knee starts to move up and down, and her bottom lip gets chewed fiercely.

  “Why are you so agitated?” I ask.

  “We’re meeting my mother at seven,” she says. “I don’t want to be late.”

  I look at the clock on the dash: 5:30.

  We take Exit 4 around 6:40, and Portia seems even more agitated. I can feel her nervousness filling up the car like some sort of poisonous gas; it’s stifling.

  I take a deep breath and remind myself that I only have to eat dinner with a crazy old lady before I’ll be returned to my home in Vermont, where I can finally be done with everything and enjoy eternal rest.

  Portia navigates through and mostly around the South Jersey rush-hour traffic, taking less-traveled residential roads through Cherry Hill, Haddonfield, Westmont, and then we are on Cuthbert Boulevard and she is pointing out the row home in which she grew up across the street from the Acme, and then she’s pulling over and pointing at the Haddon Township High School public announcement board and football field.

  “Why did you stop here?” I say.

  “Thought you might like to reminisce,” Portia says, and it’s like all of my bones are being broken again.