The Long Wait for Tomorrow (12 page)

Even with the sun ceding to the evening sky, the temperature was still floating around a humid eighty. Trees gasped for breath, leaves limp. Clouds above put in an appearance for purely decorative purposes. Even the sound of passing cars gave the impression of tires sluicing through damp marshlands rather than over parched roadways.

Patrick sighed, maybe because of the heat.

He picked up his iced tea, took a sip. Ignoring the stream of condensation dripping into his lap, he pressed the glass against his head. Closed his eyes, relaxing maybe. Thinking about Kelly. Only now Kelly wasn’t around. It had been two hours since he had driven off without so much as a hint of where he was going, leaving Patrick alone with Jenna. Both keeping their thoughts to themselves, and Patrick didn’t mind the chance it presented.

It’s a hot and cold running kind of life
, Patrick’s angels consoled him.
Every day, something new.

And in that spirit, Jenna surprised him as the first to open talks to the inevitable.

“I guess maybe it’s just the fascination that has me right
now,” Jenna said. She was sitting behind Patrick and to his right. Her voice sounded deep and boundless in the thick heat. “I like psychology. The acting, cheerleading, all that nonsense, it’s always been extracurricular, and I’ve never really liked it, you know?”

Patrick nodded.

“I’ve always tried to see it as an experiment. I guess that’s what I’ve told myself. Just like what I’ve told myself for most of today…. You ever read
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat
?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“It was the pool,” Patrick told her. He rubbed the glass over his brow. Set it down, and spread the water over the rest of his face. “It was just … how did he play that well? It’s not the things he’s forgotten, it’s all the things he can suddenly
do.
Smoking, drinking. Kelly doesn’t
drink.
Never has. How is it he suddenly starts, and how is it that when he does, he handles it like a full-blown alcoholic? Give a nondrinker two beers and they’re already slurring their words. Give Kelly a six-pack and
he’s
soberly quoting Shakespeare to the principal.”

“ ‘Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know,’ ” Jenna recalled. She dragged her chair around the table, over to where Patrick was sitting. Her cheerleading outfit had been traded for cutoffs and a thin light-blue T-shirt. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “That’s from
The Comedy of Errors
.”

“I know.”

“I was in that last year, over at the Playhouse.”

“That’s how I recognized the line.”

“I thought you guys …” Jenna sat up, pleasantly surprised. “Kelly had practice and a game that weekend.”

“Eh.” Patrick waved his hand in the air, trying to paddle past the subject. “I snuck away, managed to catch the opening.”

“You should’ve told me. Come up afterward, something like that.”

“I wasn’t with Kelly, so …” Patrick left it at that, hustled back to his original point. “So what do you think? About Kelly, how does that
happen
to someone?”

“It is possible,” Jenna said. “You’ve heard of Andy Kaufman, right?”

“Comedian, they made a movie about him. Jim Carrey, right?”

“Well, as far as
comedian
, yes and no … He was more of a performance artist.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he liked to fuck with people.”

Patrick smiled nervously. “OK.”

“Maybe that’s a bad introduction, though. Andy Kaufman was a gentle soul. He was caring, soft-spoken, he never swore. He was a vegetarian, practiced Zen Buddhism. Didn’t smoke, didn’t
drink.
He slept around a lot, but come Christmas Eve, you’d never be able to find him because he would be busy going through a list of every woman he ever slept with, calling them up, and, in all sincerity, wishing them a merry Christmas.”

Patrick couldn’t help but be charmed. “Cool.”

“Then there was Tony Clifton.”

“Who’s Tony Clifton?”

“Tony Clifton was a character Andy Kaufman created. Tony was a Vegas lounge singer, the world’s worst performer. He was crass, couldn’t sing, made tasteless jokes, and generally left his audience feeling worse than when they came in. Andy would put on this ridiculous pink tuxedo. He’d put on a fake nose, mustache, hideous wig, and dark sunglasses. And he’d become Tony Clifton. Nobody ever saw him put on the outfit, nobody ever saw him take it off. Andy always insisted that Tony Clifton was another person entirely, and he played it to the hilt. Anytime Andy went on the town as Tony Clifton, he’d swear, treat people like crap, smoke, and order sixteen-ounce porterhouse steaks.”

“But …” Patrick sat up. “That’s just acting, right?”

“He’d order an entire fifth of Jack Daniel’s and pound the whole thing. And it made him drunk, sure, but consider who was really drinking it. Andy Kaufman, beneath all that makeup and costume, a man who never touched the hard stuff. Who should have passed out drunk after just
one
drink.”

“Or two.”

“That’s right.”

Patrick sighed. He stood up, wandered over to a wooden bench built along the entire edge of the deck. He looked out past the yard. Into the thicket of trees, catching sight of white streetlights. A train whistle let out a nearly extinct plea from some miles away.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It’s not supposed to explain.” Jenna stood up, walked over
to where he was standing. “It’s supposed to … I don’t know, give us a clue. People are capable of these things.”

“What things? Andy Kaufman was an actor—”

“Performance artist.”

“Performance artist, he had an
excuse.”

“So?”

Patrick threw his hands up. “So I want to know
why
Kelly is suddenly in a … I don’t know, whatever it is that allows him … Does he even know he’s …?”

“Patrick …” Jenna lowered her voice. Put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Calm down.”

“I
am
calm,” Patrick snapped. “And if I weren’t, I’d still have every right to not be. What I’d like to know is why you’re talking about performance artists, when it really has nothing to do with the reality of … Aren’t you even
concerned
?”

“Hold it …” Jenna withdrew her hand, taking back all sentiment along with it. “Are you saying I don’t care about what’s happening to Kelly?”

“Well, you and the New Kelly McDermott get to relive first love all over again. It seems to be working out pretty well for you.”

Patrick felt those final words doing their best to scramble back down his throat, but it was too late. He stared at Jenna, hemorrhaging all prior defiance. Train whistle giving it one last go in the purple distance.

Jenna’s eyes didn’t hint at any real offense.

If they had, maybe Patrick could’ve found it in him to keep right on hammering. Instead, he saw confusion, concern.
Ambushed, uncertain, it was a checklist of his entire day, now written across Jenna’s face. It was nothing short of what he’d been asking for, only this wasn’t because of Kelly.

Jenna was looking at him as though this were the New Patrick Saint.

Patrick swallowed what felt like sandpaper. “Jenna, I’m sorry—”

“No.” Jenna raised her hand, cutting him off. “No, you don’t get to apologize. Now that you’ve said what you have to, I get to air my own laundry, thanks.”

“Jenna—”

“Maybe this isn’t all that bad for me.” Jenna folded her arms. Southern accent shaping her vowels, a sure sign she wasn’t about to be cut off. “You say you don’t know what’s going on, you ask for my opinion. I give it to you, and you get all in my face because I didn’t let you know how I
feel
about it. Well, sorry if I haven’t actually decided yet, Patrick. But you clearly have. So why don’t you tell me; why are
you
so concerned?”

Patrick knew hesitation would put him at a disadvantage. But there wasn’t any way around it, he was already at a loss. His angels whispering in a frenzy of overlapping words. Fragments of ideas from all directions. Hardly a chance to understand one when another cut in, weaving in and out. Hopeless as trying to follow a single thread through an immense woven tapestry.

Nothing to do but step back, and view the whole pattern.

“Because,” Patrick said, aware that his face had given his ineptitude away. “Because it is frightening.” He grasped for something further.

“Because he’s asking me my opinion,” Patrick said. “Because he’s
encouraging
me to do things instead of
telling
me to do them. Because he’s standing up for me … Because he’s just letting me be.”

“Yeah.”

“And it feels so …”

Jenna nodded. “Dangerous.”

“Undesirable,” Patrick concluded, quietly.

It was getting dark.

Hard to read Jenna’s expression, though her voice seemed to accept what she’d heard: “I know.”

Patrick nodded. “Can we not fight anymore?”

“I don’t know.” Jenna remained with her arms folded, torso swinging lightly from side to side. “We’ve never actually fought before … ever, I think. Is that possible?”

“When you think about it, I guess. We’ve never really been alone together.”

“No, I guess we haven’t.”

“First fight …,” Patrick agreed. “First time alone.”

“We were alone on the bleachers today.”

“Twice in one day is even more impressive.”

“Another unexpected side effect of the New Kelly Mc-Dermott.”

Patrick let out a tired laugh. He wasn’t sure what to add, very much conscious that this was as long as he’d ever managed to keep his eyes trained on Jenna’s. Which must have gone for her as well, another first. Definitely not appropriate to comment on, but the secret was well worth keeping to himself.

“So you saw me in
The Comedy of Errors
?” Jenna ventured.

“I was sitting at the back.”

“Who did I play?” Jenna asked slyly.

“The Courtesan.”

“I know, right?” Jenna laughed, embarrassed. “Get the cheerleader to play the whore, isn’t that always the case?”

“When you put it like that, I feel kind of bad telling you how good you were.”

Jenna looked down. “I wanted to play Luciana.”

“Hey.” Patrick bent his knees, tried to catch a glimpse of her face. “Next time.”

Jenna lifted her head. “Next time.”

The familiar roar of an engine put an end to their conversation.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder and saw a pair of headlights flood the driveway.

They cut out, along with the engine.

“Well, he found his way back,” Patrick commented. “That’s something, right?”

“You should ask Kelly.”

“What?”

“Just ask …,” Jenna said, filling their remaining seconds with fast words. “You want to know what’s going on with him, you might as well do it now.”

Patrick wrung his hands together, turned toward the driveway. “Every time I’ve tried, he’s just …”

“Moving too fast?” Jenna suggested.

“Hasn’t given me much of an opportunity.”

“They say there’s no time like the present.”

“I could’ve told them that.”

“I’ve got your back.” Jenna laid a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “This is us now.”

No time for Patrick to relish the sound of that last statement.

Kelly was already bounding up the path connecting the driveway to the deck. Ignoring the steps, he leaped up onto the attached bench and triumphantly stretched his arms out. Each hand clutching a hanger. Each hanger displaying what might as well have been twenty-dollar bills all sewn together.

Patrick’s mouth refused to open, brain demanding more time to get past what his eyes were seeing.

On the right, a slender red evening gown hanging by a pair of lace straps.

On the left, a perfectly ironed burgundy shirt covered by a perfectly tailored black jacket. Underneath, a pair of pants peeked out, swaying lazily.

It didn’t take a fashion designer to appreciate how scandalously expensive they were.

“Kelly.” Patrick already knew it was going to be the wrong question, but there was just no stopping curiosity. “What is that?”

“Armani,” Kelly replied, hopping off the bench. “The dress: Versace.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Just asked the guy what was best …” Kelly shoved the suit into Patrick’s chest. “And I did the rest.”

“Kelly, I don’t know …”

“Sorry, the dress is spoken for,” Kelly informed him, handing the second hanger over to Jenna. “This is for you. And
both of you”—he
jumped back, pointing at the pair—“get on into the house and change. We’ve got a seven-thirty reservation at Spiro’s, so I’d like to be out of here at seven-twenty. If either of you want me, I’ll be in the shower.”

Kelly winked and bolted for the back door.

The outdoor lights came on, spotlight on Patrick and Jenna. Holding on to their new threads as though they’d just been handed a child in a wicker basket.

Music began to blare from the open window to Kelly’s room.

Patrick glanced up and cleared his throat.

“Kelly,” he managed weakly, finally forcing the question out. “What is going on?”

“OK …” Jenna nodded, watching along as they saw Kelly jumping on his bed, stripping off his clothes. “That’s a good start, Patrick.”

Patrick nodded, neck still craned. “You still got my back?”

“Believe it or not.”

“Well …” Patrick threw the suit over his shoulder. “Doing anything for dinner?”

Jenna did the same, didn’t answer.

And if it weren’t for the mosquitoes, the two of them might have stayed that way, staring up at Kelly’s window, well into the night.