Almost Home: A Novel

  “And as for the more earthly pursuits.” I follow his gaze downward. Through a tall arched window, we have a bird’s-eye view of the dinner in the Hall below. At our table, the boys have folded their cloth napkins into makeshift hats. Faint singing wafts upward. “And did those feet, in ancient time…” An off-key chorus of tenors and faux basses croon “Jerusalem,” the hymn based on the Blake poem extolling England’s green fields. Soon the singing will turn sillier, I know, ending with the inevitable roasting of the boatman, “Tony Johnson is a Horse’s Ass.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I peek at Jared. He watches the gathering below with a faint smile, a parent watching his children play. So he really is fond of the crew after all.

  “I never knew you could get up here,” I remark.

  “I found it accidentally about a month ago. I like to get away sometimes. I’m from the countryside and, well, Cambridge is just so crowded sometimes, you know?”

  I open my mouth to disagree. Coming from Washington, I find Cambridge peaceful, quaint. But on some level I know what he means. We live, study, and play with the same few hundred people in the same space day in and day out. “It can get a little claustrophobic,” I agree.

  “And this is a good spot for thinking about things,” he adds. I cock my head. I had not imagined him as pensive. “Just things. About my dissertation.”

  “What’s it about?” I ask. It is the first conversation I’ve ever had with Jared that is not about rowing and I find myself curious to learn more.

  He hesitates, as if surprised by my interest. “I’m working on some issues related to the war—war criminals and such…”

  “I didn’t know you read history,” I interrupt. I pictured him doing something drier and more clinical, like natural sciences or computers, perhaps. “I’ve never seen you at the faculty building.”

  “I don’t really spend time there. My supervisor is down in London and I research mostly out of the Public Records Office at Kew. It’s not so much history, though that’s where my degree is based, as international affairs and politics. I’m looking at where some of the lesser-known war criminals escaped to, the ones who got away. I’d like to publish it after I’m finished to maybe shed some light on the topic.”

  “Oh.” I consider mentioning my own thesis, but economic development after the First World War seems esoteric and irrelevant by comparison.

  “Anyway, there are still some holes in my research and I’ve got to get that wrapped up. And then there’s the boat to consider—what’s wrong, how we are going to fix it in time for the Mays.”

  I nod, unsurprised by his abrupt change of topic. The crew is never far from my mind, either. Though the May Bumps are more than six months away, he is right to be concerned—the guts, the foundation of the boat, need to be built now. Bumps, held few places in the world other than Cambridge and Oxford, are races where seventeen boats are lined up a length and a half apart. The objective over the course is to bump, or contact the boat in front, before getting hit by the boat behind. If a crew is successful in bumping, then it will switch places with the crew it bumped for the start of the race the next day. The race goes on for four days and the goal is to advance as many places as possible or—if you are us and are already second from the top—to hit the one crew in front of you and then stay on top, thereby claiming the Head of the River. The Lords women’s first boat did it last year to great fanfare, including a bonfire after the boat club dinner where a wood boat was burned in celebration. Our men have been second for the past three years, trying in vain to overtake Trinity Hall and reclaim the Headship that has eluded us for decades. But even as we chase, the crews behind us are hungry, too, nipping at our heels. There is an unspoken urgency this year—if we do not claim the Headship now, we will begin to slide down in the rankings.

  And Jared was brought to Lords to help us reclaim the Headship. He feels as though our success or failure is on his shoulders. Suddenly I understand his intensity. It is not that he is mean. He is driven. It’s like he is chasing something and that keeps him from being able to stop and play like the rest of us.

  “What do you think? About the boat, I mean.” I look up at Jared, surprised. He has never asked my opinion about the crew. “I know you can feel things from the cox’s seat, see things that I can’t.”

  I hesitate. Do I dare to tell him the truth? The alcohol warms me, making me bold. “I think that you scare the crew.” He opens his mouth but I raise my hand before he can speak. “I know that you need to be tough with them to instill discipline. But they’re tense. They’re so afraid of angering you that they aren’t able to loosen up. They need to relax, to laugh, bond a little.”

  Jared does not answer but looks down and for a minute I worry that I have angered him. “Look.” He gestures to the Hall below, where dessert has been served. A contest called a no-hands bumper is under way, the goal to clean one’s plate by eating without hands or silverware. I follow Jared’s gaze to the far right corner of the room, where Chris is talking to Michelle, a female rower from the second year. He shakes his head. “That boy always leaves with someone.”

  He’s right, I realize. Chris has hooked up with a lot of women, even by college standards. It sometimes seems as if he is on a mission, driven to prove something. But it is more than that: Chris is always the one hosting late-night parties in his room, inviting people back for drinks after events. “It’s like he can’t stand going home alone.”

  “Sooner or later, we all go home alone.” He exhales heavily, an almost-sigh. “Anyway, that boy needs a good woman.”

  “Just waiting for the right girl to walk into the wrong bar,” I quip, borrowing a line I heard as an undergraduate.

  “I think he thinks you’re that girl,” Jared says bluntly.

  I turn to look at him, startled. What is he talking about? “We never, that is, I never…” But now there seem to be a thousand signs: Chris’s protectiveness of me, the way he seems to always be close by. I took it as a stroke looking out for his cox. Could Jared be right? “That’s impossible,” I say finally. But my head swims.

  “Maybe,” he replies indifferently.

  What about you, I want to ask? I have never seen Jared with a girl. A thousand questions flood my brain. What is he doing here with me? Why does he normally hate me so? I turn, expecting to find him watching the party, but instead he is staring out across the rooftops, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “This is kind of strange,” I say abruptly. He turns to me. “Us, I mean, hanging out tonight, talking like normal people. Like we don’t hate each other.”

  His expression crumples slightly. “I don’t hate you.”

  “You think I’m a shitty cox.”

  “Not even. I think you could be a good cox.” Now it is his turn to be candid. “You’ve got the technical skills. But you feel too much. A cox needs to be calculating, precise. You should be driving the crew like highly trained racehorses, not coddling them like babies. The boys trust you and that’s a good thing. But in the boat, you can’t be their friend.”

  I look away, stung by the truth in what he’s said, hoping he cannot see my cheeks burn in the darkness. In the distance a bell begins to chime. “We should go,” he says abruptly. “The porters lock the upper floor just past nine and I don’t think we want to spend the night.”

  Downstairs we stop by the door to the Hall, listening to the roar of singing on the other side of the door, a train that has gone on without us. I take my coat from the rack and, as if by silent agreement, we continue down the stairs and out the door. Jared stops and turns to me. “I’ve got to get the train to Kew early tomorrow,” he says, an apology perhaps for not carrying on to the bar or inviting me around for coffee. I am relieved and yet strangely disappointed.

  He reaches out with his hand and I freeze. Does he mean to hug me good night? But he brings his hand to my face. “You’ve got a bit of a smudge…” Nice, I think, as he brushes his thumb against the corner of my lip. Classy. “There, th
at’s better. Have a nice Christmas break, if I don’t see you.”

  He turns away. I fight the urge to call after him, to ask him to wait. I don’t hate you, either, I want to say, remembering his hurt expression earlier. But he is already halfway across the courtyard, shoulders hunched, head tucked low against the wind.

  the LENT TERM

  chapter EIGHT

  TRAFALGAR SQUARE ON a Monday morning is a swarming mass of activity. Cars and buses move along the roadway in fits and starts, jamming up at the traffic lights, filling the air with thick exhaust. Swarms of commuters, invisible beneath a sea of black umbrellas, jostle as they make their way from the buses to the city, from Charing Cross Tube station to Whitehall. Across the road, the square itself is packed thick with tourists who, undaunted by the fine misting rain, feed the pigeons that cluster by the lion statues beneath Nelson’s Column and snap photos from the steps of the National Gallery.

  I press back against the glass window of Waterstone’s, looking for shelter from the chaos as much as the weather, then close my umbrella. This time I came prepared, determined not to turn up soaked at another important meeting. I look at my watch. Nine-fifty. I pull my cell phone from my pocket. The message button blinks once. Someone must have called while I was on the Tube. I open the phone and punch in the key code hurriedly. I tried to call Chris twice, once from the train station and again when I got home to tell him that the documents had been stolen, but he didn’t answer, nor had he returned my calls over the weekend.

  When I woke up on the train and realized the coroner’s report was gone, I searched my bag a half dozen times, looked under my seat and the one across from it, and checked between the cushions. Then I walked the length of the train, scanning the handful of other passengers who dozed or read as we neared London until the conductor asked me if everything was all right. I did not know how to answer. The notion that someone had stolen papers of seemingly little or no worth from my bag while leaving my wallet and other valuables intact sounded illogical, paranoid. The papers could simply be lost, I reminded myself, sitting back down. They could have fallen from my bag at dinner or in the taxi, though I thought my bag was closed the entire time. In any event, the report was gone. So I dialed Chris to tell him as the train pulled into King’s Cross.

  But the voice that fills the receiver now is not his. It is Sarah, politely asking if I’ve settled in okay, do I need anything? Guilt slams into me. It’s been two days since I’ve spoken with her. I stopped by to see her on Saturday morning, hoping to persuade her to come with me to the shops to buy some items for my new flat. She hesitated, looking longingly out the window, then down at her wheelchair, and I could see her worrying about getting down the stairs and navigating through the crowds that thronged Portobello Road on the weekends. “I’m a bit tired,” she said finally, and though I pressed her a few more times, I knew it was futile. No amount of cajoling could move Sarah when she made up her mind. I left soon after and spent the rest of the weekend settling into the flat, napping off my jet lag, reading some background on Infodyne. I meant to call, but…it doesn’t matter, I cut off my own mental excuses. You came here for her. Quickly I hit the call return button. The phone rings twice before her soft voice answers. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. I just got your message.”

  “Jordie, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” There is concern, but no hint of reproach in her voice.

  “Yes, I’m sorry for having been out of touch. I think I slept half the weekend…” I had not told her about my trip to Cambridge when I stopped by on Saturday. It just seemed too soon, the information about Jared too raw to share. Now I am seized with the urge to tell her everything, to have her help me make sense of it all. But I can’t, not here. “I’m just on my way to a meeting but I’d love to catch up. Dinner tonight?”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” she replies drolly, “but I think I’m free.” Of course she is.

  “Great. I should be there by seven. I’ll pick something up on my way.” I close the phone then brush a piece of lint from the front of my white sweater beneath my coat. I fretted over the outfit choice, changing several times before settling on the simple twin set and camel-colored light wool skirt, trying to achieve a serious yet not intimidating look.

  “Jordan,” a voice calls behind me. I spin around to see Duncan Lauder striding toward me, closing a large black umbrella.

  “Duncan!” I exclaim as he bends to kiss me lightly on both cheeks. He is taller than I remembered, and paler, the healthy color and form that came from hours on the river replaced by a gray office pallor, a slight paunch. His always wispy brown hair has thinned, revealing patches of scalp.

  “I hope you weren’t waiting long. The trains were running a few minutes late.” His teeth seem to lean against each other, overlapping in a way I hadn’t remembered.

  “Not at all. You’re right on time. Thanks for meeting me.” He reopens his umbrella, holding it over me as we navigate through the crowds. Uneasiness nags at me: Duncan said that he would be nearby for meetings. So why was it necessary to take the train? Why not pick somewhere more convenient? I remember his hesitancy on the phone the previous day when I suggested coming to Infodyne. Perhaps he does not want to be seen with me.

  Enough, I think, silencing my questions. Paranoia has never served me well. Most likely I am his first meeting of the day and he’s just taken the train in from wherever he lives. I turn to him. “Where shall we go?” I ask brightly as we reach the northern edge of the square.

  “There’s a coffee shop a few blocks up,” he replies, leading me around Saint Martin-in-the-Fields church. But as we turn the corner, he looks furtively over his shoulder in both directions. No, my first instinct was correct: Duncan is definitely nervous about our meeting, and I haven’t even told him why I want to see him yet.

  We continue along a narrow street that seems to parallel Charing Cross Road. It is a no-man’s-land between the darkened theaters of the West End and the lively stalls of Covent Garden, lined with local shops that are of little interest to the tourists who crowd the larger thoroughfare. Rainwater mixes with garbage waiting to be picked up at the curb, giving the air a sour smell.

  “How’s Vance?” I ask as Duncan opens the door to a small coffee shop and sets his umbrella by the front door. It is a calculated risk, assuming that they are still together, hoping that the question will break the ice if they are.

  “Brilliant, thanks.” Duncan’s face brightens at the mention of his partner. “He’s in a show right now in the West End, a reprisal of Sondheim’s Company. Fabulous reviews. You really should see it. And we bought a lovely flat in Bethnal Green last year.”

  “That’s East London, right?”

  He nods. “It’s really coming around. Not as dodgy as it used to be and you can get good value for money on property.”

  “That’s a bit far for your commute to Luton, isn’t it?” I ask after we have ordered our cappuccinos.

  I reach for my wallet but he waves me away. “I’ve got it. It is. But well worth it. I can’t imagine us living outside of London.”

  “Are you still rowing at all?” I ask.

  “I am, actually. Nothing serious, but there’s a group of us that manages to go out once or twice a week. In an eight, if we have the bodies, if not in a four. You should join us. We’re always in need of a cox.”

  I manage a laugh. “Not sure the early mornings are for me anymore. But I’ll think about it.” Inwardly, I shudder. I haven’t been in a boat in a decade, not since our row to the site of Jared’s grave the morning after the funeral. I cannot imagine ever doing it again.

  Duncan picks up cappuccinos and leads me to a table in the back of the shop. As far from the windows as possible, I notice. “So what brings you to England?” he asks after we are seated. He stirs brown sugar into his cup.

  I hesitate. In other countries, I would have had some degree of cover, a fake job or purpose to use when getting close to a target, so a
s not to arouse suspicion. England is different, though. Too many people know me here to keep my work a secret. “A friend of mine from college, Sarah Sunderson, is terribly ill with ALS. I wanted to be close by, so I took an assignment here.” I speak slowly, choosing my words with care.

  Duncan’s brow furrows, his lips pulling downward. “I didn’t know her, but I’m so sorry to hear that.” His sadness is genuine. Duncan was always such a nice guy. I wish I didn’t have to approach him under these circumstances, to involve him in my work. “Is this the first time you’ve been back since…?” He does not finish the sentence.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, too. I never had the chance to see you, afterwards I mean, to speak with you at the memorial service.” Because I ran out before it started, I think, slipped out the side door of the chapel, unable to bear the very kind of condolences he wanted to offer. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was. How much I liked Jared.” His words come out in a tumble now, the regret as fresh as if Jared died yesterday. “I knew him from the boathouses, of course, and a conference we both attended once in Madrid. I wanted to send a note but I couldn’t…anyway, it was a terrible loss.”

  Even more than you know, I think, remembering all that Chris and I learned yesterday. For a minute, I consider telling Duncan about our trip to Cambridge, to get his thoughts. But I am here for work; I cannot jeopardize my assignment for personal reasons. “Thank you,” I say at last. I take a sip of cappuccino, fighting the tears that seem to form in my eyes whenever Jared is mentioned these days. I blink them back, cursing inwardly. This isn’t me. Coming back has made me soft, and I hate it.

  “And I wish I could be of more help,” Duncan adds, “but I really don’t know anything more about the night he died than you do.”

  I swallow, too fast, nearly choking on the hot liquid, then set down my mug with a thump. “Excuse me?”