Intimations (6 page)

When she went to use the restroom she didn't check her phone. It almost didn't matter to her whether Tim had called, though she had to admit it still mattered. Talking with Vanessa had made her feel that she was nearly ready to forget him completely; all she needed was another week or two. Last time they hung out, only their second time without Tim around, Vanessa had told her about something terrible that he had done to her while they were still in college. In senior year, a large group of their friends had decided to rent a six-bedroom lake house for the weekend. The house had five full-size beds, four cots, and two couches, but the situation was such that different people would still have to bunk together, systematically, to fit everyone into bed at night. This was ideal for Vanessa, who knew that she had a good chance of sharing a bed with Jason, who not only had admitted that he had feelings for her but also really understood why she was interested in broadcast journalism—not because it was the best or most rigorous journalism but because it felt like it was happening in the immediate now. The first night they spooned together in bed, but the next Vanessa drank too much tequila. When she woke up, it wasn't Jason but Tim crawling naked under the covers with her, his pink and sunburned arms reaching up under her nightshirt, rooting around the folds of her flesh, grabbing at her nipples. Even though nothing else happened, Tim told
Jason that they had sex. Jason didn't speak to her again until after graduation. Now Jason was in Hollywood, acting in a popular TV show where he played a high school athlete. Although Vanessa had slept with Tim a few months after that under different circumstances, she had never completely forgiven him for having foreclosed for her the possibility of sleeping with the person she had truly wanted and hoped to sleep with. It was news to Karen that they had slept together. The week after she met Vanessa, she had asked Tim if anything had ever happened between them. He told her nothing had, then he made her apologize to him for asking. It was a fight over this piece of information that had broken them up, and this surprised her: there had been so many fights that left behind no trace or consequence.

When Karen got back to the table, Martin was putting away his phone. “Sorry,” said Karen. “It's not a problem,” Martin replied. He tried to be warm to her, he reached his hand across the table and placed it near hers. Tim had liked this place, with its stupid pun-filled names for pizzas and its great beer menu. The tank top waitress was humming a different pop song from the one playing over the speakers. Karen and Martin listened to her humming. Neither of them had anything to say.

“You should come for a visit,” said Martin.

“Visit?” said Karen.

“In Berlin. It'll be spring soon. There are fantastic clubs,” he said.

Karen was surprised. She smiled.

“Maybe I'll visit,” she said. She had a vision of herself walking in the sunshine. She was wearing the same clothes,
same hairstyle. She felt happy. Was she in Berlin? They drank from their huge cans of beer.

“Are you doing something after this?” Martin asked.

“Well, I need to work,” Karen replied.

“Yes, yes,” said Martin. “But can you take a break?”

“Well,” said Karen, confused, “I might watch a movie.”

“Do you want to watch a movie together?” he asked.

“I don't know where,” she said. “I just watch movies in my room. I don't even have a TV. It's a small screen.”

“It might work,” he said.

More people were entering the restaurant now. They had come off work nearby. They were chattering and laughing. They were the loudest thing in the room. Every time someone entered, a frigid draft passed through and made all the customers look around. It was decided that Martin would go to Karen's apartment. Karen felt tired. She wanted to be alone now, but it wasn't fair to want someone around only when you wanted them around. As Martin had grown more relaxed, he had also grown more agitated. When he spoke, he gestured with a pointed finger. They talked about their parents while they waited for the check. Martin's mother was an angel, a kind and very pretty woman who had left him the money to go to graduate school.

“Did she pass away?” Karen asked.

“Away?” asked Martin.

“Passed away,” she repeated.

“No,” he said sharply. “She is alive.” He sounded irritated.

“When we say someone has left money, we usually mean they've passed away,” Karen explained.

Martin leaned back in his seat.

“No,” he said, more mildly. “Not dead.”

Karen thought of her article, of the different scenes she had tried to begin with, none of which were right. She thought of Ned Regan, bending down to grasp a teat infected with mastitis, a persistent and sometimes fatal inflammation of the udder. The teat was black and necrotized and surrounded by other abnormal teats, deeply red and swollen. He pulled at it to show her how the tissue was dead, how the tissue felt nothing. The cow released a tired moan. Because the Regan farm was 100 percent antibiotic-free, cases that weren't identified in time were nearly always fatal. That day Tim had written to her, admitting that he hadn't been honest about his relationship with Vanessa, that he was sorry, that he only failed to mention it because it wasn't important and took place so long ago. Karen felt unhappy. She thought she might cry. Then she felt a little less unhappy. When the waiter brought the check, she noticed that there were small cuts all over his hands, each one scabbed over and neat.

As they left the restaurant, Karen remembered how she had left food out on the kitchen counter hours ago. The sliced deli cheese would still be there, shiny and hard, sweating out beads of grease atop the waxy paper.

Martin and Karen stood in front of her building, a converted warehouse that housed over twenty different lofts on each floor. The lofts were labeled A through V. Though over a hundred people must have lived in her building, Karen had met none of them. When she came upon them in the
stairwell she looked away, at the painted gray cement or out the window at the roof of the warehouse across the street. As she looked away they looked at her quizzically, trying to gauge whether she belonged. Martin stood next to Karen as she tried to key in the security code to the front door. She wished that he'd look away while she pushed the buttons in order, but he did not. When the door buzzed and she pulled it open, they stepped into the chilly foyer. He held her hand for a second and then dropped it. The texture and shape of his hand reminded her of a washcloth.

They climbed the steps slowly and without talking much. Through the window you could see a large truck unloading boxes at the doughnut warehouse. Karen stopped at the apartment door. “I may not be much fun,” she said, trying to make it sound like a joke and a serious statement at once. “That's all right,” said Martin, picking her hand up and holding it longer this time, patting it three times with his free hand. At the end of each workday, after they had finished with dinner and cleaned up the dishes, Ned Regan would sit down at the table with a cool glass of fresh whole milk squeezed from his favorite cow, Lainey. Ned used to say that it was this daily glass of milk that reminded him why he should get up the next morning and do it all over again. He also said that it had cured him of acid reflux and sleep apnea. Ned was a picture of health, his cheeks ruddy and tanned, his teeth straight and the strong hands clutching a column of pure thick white. But as he brought the glass to his mouth and began sucking up the creamy, frothy top with his sun-chapped lips, Karen always fought the desire to look away. She could hear the wet slap of tongue against
liquid, the greedy glug of the throat as it tried to swallow as much as it could and then swallow more. When he had finished the entire glass and breathed a sigh of relief, she saw the white ghost of milkfat on his upper lip and couldn't help but think of him as an infant, a gigantic callused infant.

The apartment opened up onto the disorderly kitchen. The kitchen was as she knew it would be: dishes undone, sliced cheese splayed out in the open. There was a bowl of cereal sitting out on top of the stove that she had forgotten to eat. Martin was looking at the spices on the rack and nodding at them. He pointed at one.

“Very nice,” he said.

“What?” asked Karen.

“Turmeric,” he answered.

Karen crumpled the pile of paper and cheese into a ball and stuffed it in the trash.

“Would you give me a tour?” asked Martin. From where he stood he could already see almost the entirety of the apartment, which was arranged in a straight line from the door toward a large back window. The only thing he couldn't see into was the bedroom, a small closed-in room with walls all around. It had a small window onto the rest of the apartment. “Like a cave,” the realtor had said.

“Sure,” said Karen, washing her hands. She dried them on a paper towel.

She showed him the kitchen table and the bathroom with its goldfish-printed shower curtain. She showed him the couch and the heating duct and the bookshelf with its array of old schoolbooks and novels. She showed him a plant that she had been given by a friend when she moved into this
apartment. She stood outside the bedroom and explained how it was very difficult for light to find its way inside, which made it a good place to sleep and write. Her desk was inside the small lightless room, and sitting at it occasionally made Karen feel so desperate that she went over to the bed and fell asleep instead.

“What do you think you'd like to watch?” Karen asked.

“What?” asked Martin.

“What kind of movie do you want to see. I have some of everything,” she said.

“Oh,” said Martin, “I'll watch what you want.”

“I don't have any Dreyer,” she said.

“Do you usually watch in bed?” he asked, pointing up at the lofted mattress.

“Sometimes I watch at the desk,” she said, pointing at the desk.

“Okay,” he said, “the desk.”

“There's another chair in the kitchen,” Karen said. She went to get it, but Martin stopped her.

“Should I take off my shoes?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes.”

He bent over and untied each shoe before pulling it off. His shoes were leather sneakers with a letter B on the side. As she watched him, Karen could see that his hands were shaking badly. He had trouble holding the little ends of the shoelaces as he tugged to undo them. He straightened his body up.

“I think one chair is fine,” said Martin, sitting down in the rolling desk chair. It squeaked. They looked at each other.

“I'd like to sit, too,” Karen said, her arms stiff.

Martin leaned forward and took her hands in his, pulling her toward him. His hands were shaking so much that her hands shook too. Their hands jittered together like they were on a bumpy car ride through the countryside.

“One is fine,” said Martin again, as he pulled her down onto his lap.

Tim used to say that Karen was the smartest person he had ever met. This meant something to Karen because in her own family, she had never even been close to the smartest person. She was always the weak thinker, the vague thinker, and these days thoughts came to her damaged in transit, one piece now and one piece several hours later, its counterpart already forgotten. Tim used to tell stories about how dumb Vanessa was. Vanessa was a successful associate news producer and therefore not literally dumb, but she had done some things in college. Once she was tricked into skinny-dipping and nobody else went in the water. Once she paid $1,200 to buy a star that would be named after herself, and it was a scam. She used to think that global warming was due to the rise of air conditioners, pumping hot air out into the climate in exchange for cold, and would correct itself as people grew more used to the hotter temperatures and used their air-conditioning units less. None of it mattered much to Karen. She had only known Vanessa for six months, though she had been with Tim for almost two years. She liked Vanessa because Vanessa liked her. Vanessa liked her because they both read the big thick Sunday newspaper all through the following week, and felt roughly the same way about the quality of each article. At the end of the
night Vanessa was often slung over her shoulders, breathing heavily near her ear and telling Tim that he was so lucky, so lucky and he should stop being such an asshole.

Karen felt the sharp blades of Martin's thighbones digging into the backs of her thighs. She squirmed on his lap, but that made it hurt more. He was like a man made of metal, inhospitable. Beneath her she felt something moving, twitching, a curious subterranean animal trying to find its way into the light.

Karen pushed herself up from the chair and walked to the far end of the room, but it was not a large room. She turned and looked at Martin, who looked confused.

“I just wanted to watch a movie,” said Karen. She was holding her elbows in her hands and her arms were crossed.

“I,” said Martin. “I've enjoyed talking to you very much.”

“Yes,” she said. “That's fine.”

They were six feet apart.

“Would you like me to leave?” Martin asked.

Karen nodded. “Yes,” she said.

Karen didn't want to stand there and watch while Martin put his shoes back on, but it was a small room and he was blocking the door. With one hand he formed a loop with the end of the shoelace. With the other he drew the other lace around and under. His hands were still shaking. He pulled the laces tight and stepped out into the apartment. The afternoon light was still cold and bright, but it was getting dimmer. She stood there and watched while he collected his bag, his jacket. Sometimes she looked away but there was nothing to look at. After he put on his jacket and gloves, she grabbed his forearm and squeezed it with her hand. Then
she tried to slide her cheek next to his, but she forgot to make the kissing sound. She grabbed his forearm again and let it go. She had forgotten how to be a person.