Authors: Laurel Osterkamp
Later, Reggie and his wife are by the exit. I pretend not to
see them wave at me, but they’re not picking up on my social cues.
“Lucy, hey, Lucy!” It’s cleared out and quieted down in the
restaurant, and everyone can hear Reggie call my name. I have no choice but to
go over.
“Did you need something?” I’m standing over him, but he’s
not at a table now, and the chair seems like a bigger deal, as if one of us
should be apologizing for it.
“No,” he says. Then he pauses, and for a moment I’m worried
he is going to launch into an apology, only it will be for all the dark, ugly
moments that have passed between us, ones that were surely all his fault yet
still I feel responsible for them, too. And I know that the last thing I want
to give him is a chance to say he’s sorry.
“Well, it was
great
seeing you Reggie. Try not to be too disappointed when Bush is sent packing
next week.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that will be a problem.” Reggie gives
me a false little smile, and holds out his hand, like he wants to shake.
Maybe I can’t be less than I am, but I also have no desire,
in this moment, to be anything more. I hold up my hands as if I’m being
arrested. “Company policy,” I say. “No shaking hands with customers. It’s about
hygiene.”
Without a smile, wink, or a nod, I turn on my heel and walk
away from Reggie. This time I’m ready to move on.
Back in Ames, and my lecture today isn’t even related to the
class notes I was supposed to present. Before I can start, some kid with a loud
voice and thick glasses demands we talk about voter fraud in Ohio. I try to
steer clear, but to no avail.
She’s practically shouting. “Are you even aware of the voter
suppression and the screwed up punch-card ballots? It’s like Florida all over
again! Why doesn’t anyone seem to care?”
I look at her and see myself. So really, the only answer I
can give is an honest one. “We’re just too beaten down from losing.”
Not surprisingly, my response doesn’t satisfy her. In fact,
it only incites her and her friends. They yell at me as if I’m somehow
responsible for Bush’s win. Maybe I am. Maybe we all are. After what happened
four years ago, how could we not see this coming?
“Consider all the ways that we as humans divide ourselves,”
I tell them. “One significant way is in how we fight. There are the people who
will win at any cost, there are those who would rather lose than get their
hands dirty, and then there are the people who refuse to fight at all.”
It’s like talking to deaf ears.
I guess that like love, lessons about fighting must be self-taught.
After class I’m walking towards my car, kicking soggy leaves
with the toe of my Ugg Boots. Soggy leaves don’t travel very far, no matter how
hard you kick them. I sigh in defeat. Perhaps I share a problem with many of
the candidates I support, because I still don’t know where I fit in. I hate
fighting but I love winning; I’ll get my hands dirty, but only if the other guy
does so first. But now that all the options have been sucked away, what’s left?
How do you move on when you’re wedged in place?
I ask myself this every time I reach for the phone to call
Drew but push it away instead. I don’t know if I’m being more than what I am,
or less, but I’m desperate to feel like “me” again.
I reach my car, drive to Jack’s restaurant, and prepare for
another evening of waiting tables. More than once this week I’ve wanted to talk
to Monty. He’d have something to say about the recent election, and no matter
what the circumstances, he would want to stay in the fight.
I push through the heavy doors and step inside the dark
restaurant that always smells of garlic and beer. Jack isn’t up front, so I
look for him back in the office. He’s sitting at his desk, but when I approach
I see that instead of working, he’s goofing around on MySpace. When he looks up
at me with a smile, I skip saying hello.
“Have you heard from Monty?”
His face falls. “He has malaria.”
My stomach drops at least a foot. “What?”
“Evelyn finally called me. She said they’ve got him in a
hospital, and not to come. With Petra pregnant, I don’t think I should. Who
knows what I’d expose her to, once I’m back. So I guess I’ll just have to trust
Evelyn to handle it.”
I scuff my toe against the floor and struggle for a
response. What can I say? It’s hard to stay in the fight when the wind has been
knocked out of you. “Keep me posted, okay? And let me know if there’s anything
I can do.”
Jack gets up and grips my shoulder. “Thanks, Lucy. You’re
such a good friend.”
He walks off, and I’m left where I was a week ago, desperate
for another distraction. But with the promise of status quo for several more
years, I feel like nothing will ever change. At least, not the way I want it
to.
I settle into my office chair and turn my computer on. It’s
Monday morning, and I’m sure I’ll be greeted with a ton of student emails, all
asking for extensions. It’s always like this when an assignment is due. I call
up my email and brace myself for the onslaught of begging.
I’m not wrong; there are a lot of emails from students. But
one email stands out, and I read it first. It’s from
[email protected]
,
and the subject line is “Do You Still Hate Cokie Roberts?”
I click it open and read.
Lucy, it’s been a long
time. I’m back in the U.S. for good, and I thought of you this morning when
Cokie Roberts was doing commentary on “This Week.” I never set it up so you
could punch her in the face. Probably that opportunity has passed, but I still
just wanted to say hi. Hope you’re well.
-Monty
I laugh, and decide not to
over-think my response. I type it out quickly, so I won’t change my mind and
not send anything at all.
Monty, I’m glad that
Cokie Roberts makes you think of me. Since you’re using my work email you must
know I’m living/teaching in Seattle. I heard you conquered malaria. Congrats on
your article in the Atlantic. Jack went on and on about it. It was really good.
If you’re ever in
Seattle, give me a call.
-Lucy
I hit send, and then I try to
focus on work. In a little more than an hour, there’s another email from him.
Lucy, why do you have
to be so far away? Seriously, the West Coast? What’s with that?
If I’m ever in Seattle, I’ll definitely call, but I don’t know when
that would be. I guess geography has never been on our side, huh?
I place my palms down, flat upon my desk. I inhale and
exhale, and try not to get too excited. Yes, the email is definitely
flirtatious. But as he said, geography is not on our side.
This time I delay writing back. This time I will over-think
what I’m going to say. After all, in the last four years I’ve had only two
short-lived relationships. I wasn’t in love, not like I was with Drew, and
neither guy could give me what I want. Probably it’s my fault; what I want is
both fluid and complex. I could barely explain it to myself, let alone to
either of them. So I decided to give up on my attachment to love and romance.
You don’t spend years getting to this point, of actually being happy alone,
only to throw it all away with one simple little email.
It’s rare when a guy with a knack for getting you to believe
both in yourself and in the world comes along. But once he does, you can
imagine that greatness is possible. When he appears, you need to forget about
what you thought you wanted, what you’d settled for wanting, and reach for your
highest ideals. Because for once in your life, you just might be able to grasp
them.
Carolyn Kennedy said as much about Obama last January. Her
op-ed piece in the
New York Times
stated that he could be a president like her father was, and every bit as
inspirational. Oprah Winfrey even declared that he’s “the one.” I admit; I feel
the same way.
But the primary season has been rocky. Just when I think he
has the nomination sewn up, Hillary Clinton wins New Hampshire, or Texas, or
some other state. And when the Reverend Jeremiah Wright scandal broke, it
didn’t make me doubt Obama as much as I doubted that idealism itself could ever
last, long term. Then he made his speech about race, and I believed again. I
guess the beauty of obstacles lies in overcoming them.
When Monty calls, I remind myself of this point.
What are the chances that we could wind up in the same
place, yet so far from home? Two years ago, after completing my degree, I did
an extensive job search and found a teaching position at Seattle University. It
pays just enough that I can afford a nice one bedroom in a nice neighborhood,
but more importantly, I’m teaching social justice, which I love. I finally
reconciled with the idea that I wasn’t ever getting married and having kids,
and I decided there are benefits to being alone.
I already knew Monty had regained his health but lost his
girlfriend to another man. His bout with malaria had inspired him to write an
article in
The Atlantic
about both
his personal struggles with the disease and society’s obligation to eradicate
it. His article led to a lecture at NYU, which led to a speaking tour. Now,
apparently, he’s gotten a job offer from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation
to write policy and be the public voice for their research for a malaria
vaccine. I suppose it figures that if anyone could actually benefit from having
malaria, it would be Monty.
His message said he was coming to Seattle to check out the
job, and we should have a drink. Of course I say yes.
The evening goes great. Our drink turns to dinner, and since
we’re eating at a restaurant close to my apartment in the Queen Anne
neighborhood, it’s only natural for me to invite him over to see my place.
So I’m standing in my kitchen, preparing decaffeinated
coffee and trying to ease my jitters, now that the effect of the wine I drank
earlier is wearing off.
He’s sitting at my tiny, shabby-chic dining room table,
fiddling with my laptop. “I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble accessing
my account,” he says.
“Are you sure you’re using the right password?”
“No.” He looks up from the computer, and I meet his gaze
from the kitchen. His eyelids look heavier than I remember, but other than
that, he’s still the same guy who has occupied my fantasies, off and on, for
years. He must have had time to change clothes after his interview, because
he’s wearing a black, long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He’s thinner than he was
six years ago, but that’s probably more from working out than from any lasting
effects of malaria. He smiles. “I have so many different passwords, I can never
remember them all.”
“I understand. You can show me the pictures some other time.
Maybe another six years from now?”
I grab the coffee mugs, and bring them to the table where
he’s sitting. I sit across from him and pull my semi-short jersey dress down,
over my knees, so it doesn’t ride up too suggestively.
“It’s really been six years? Wow.” He takes a sip of his coffee,
and then he sets the mug back on the table. “You know, I never thanked you for
that night.”
I cock my head. “There was no need. I didn’t do anything.”
“You promised to check in on Jack.”
“I would have done that anyway.”
“I know.” He runs his finger along the rim of his cup, and
his eyebrows knit together. “And you listened to me, about my dad. You said
nice things.”
“Anyone would have.”
“But it was you.” He stretches a little in his seat, and his
voice lowers as he continues to speak. “I felt like I talked to him, when I was
sick. My dad, I mean.”
The evening has been so light, up until now. I fold my legs
up, so I’m sitting cross-legged in my chair, with my dress carefully covering
what needs to be covered. I lean forward, as if to suggest that I can handle
whatever it is he’s about to tell me.
“It was probably a hallucination, or a dream,” he says. “But
it felt real.”
“What did he say?”
“Standard dead-dad stuff, I suppose.” Monty grins
self-consciously. “He told me to make sure to have my tires rotated at least
once a year, and to refinance our house while mortgage rates are low.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding. “Really?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “No.” His face grows serious
again. “It’s sort of a haze, you know. But I remember he said he was proud.”
“See. I told you. Turns out I was right.” I smile,
unconcerned if I appear smug.
“I should never have doubted you.” He reaches out and takes
my hand. Warmth spreads through me from his touch. “Don’t tell Jack, okay? It’s
not a story I typically go around sharing.”
“I won’t tell him.” I turn his hand over, and caress his
thumb with my index finger. “But speaking of not telling Jack…”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Seriously? I’m not allowed to
tell him we had dinner?”
“No, of course you can. Just don’t tell him you came over
after.” Monty looks at me with silent skepticism. “It’s complicated,” I say. “I
know that sounds lame, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“There’s no need to explain.” Monty shrugs his shoulders.
“Your friendship with Jack has lasted way longer than anything I’ve ever had
with an ex.” He draws invisible circles with his finger into my palm. “Who am I
to judge?”
I ignore the tingling feeling that his touch is causing
inside of me. “Well, it’s you I have to thank, right? It was you who talked him
into staying friends with me after I broke up with him.”
“Oh, you mean after I eavesdropped in on your conversation?”
I move my hand away. “You swore that you hadn’t.”
He shrugs his shoulders again, and his eyes gleam with happy
guilt. “You got what you wanted. Alls well that ends well, right?”