Authors: Marcy Dermansky
That seemed so Haverford to me. If Jonathan Beene was the kind of success that he seemed to be, I wanted him to be evil. For him to morally bankrupt, despicable. But when he came up on the stage, he was just Jonathan Beene. He was still a little bit short. He was wearing a blue blazer, jeans, no tie, kind of dressed like he was still in college, still a nerd. Cute. As if he had grown into his nerdiness. He seemed awkward on the stage. I smoothed the front of my dress.
Jonathan made a speech about innovation, about dreaming and also staying true to your dreams. “Following your heart,” he said, “can also mean earning a lot of money. They are not diametrically opposed as much as people seem to believe.”
The connection was a surprise. At least, it seemed like a bit of a leap to me. So far, it was also not true, at least in my case. Jonathan's eyes wandered as he talked, to the ceiling, to the back of his fingers, to the exit sign above the side door. It was almost as if he wanted to flee. His speech was well written, but he was not a good speaker.
“Why is he here?” I whispered to Margaret.
“On Earth?” Yannick asked.
“No.” I felt like it would be not long before I was officially annoyed with Yannick. “At Stanford?”
“The Business School invited him,” Margaret said.
“Did he go here?” I asked.
“He dropped out of the MBA program,” Margaret said.
“What did he major in?” I whispered. “In college.”
I thought it was philosophy, but here he was, a prominent leader in business. How did that reconcile? Jonathan had actually written me a couple of times while I was at Rutgers but I never answered. Margaret was really the only person I still knew from that period in my life, and it had just been by chance really that we started a new friendship, running into each other in Golden Gate Park.
“Philosophy,” Margaret said.
I had never picked up a philosophy text again, not after Haverford.
There was a slide show going on behind Jonathan's head. Figures. Pie graphs. The photo of an African woman wearing a head scarf, grinning as she cut the red tape on a new business. I heard the words “sustainability” followed by “profit margins.” Jonathan Beene's wandering eyes landed on Yannick's dreadlocks and then Margaretâhe smiled at Margaretâand then, finally, on me. Jonathan Beene stopped talking, midsentence. He knocked over his glass of water on the podium. He asked for a paper towel or something to clean up the water, and then somehow he dropped the water glass, which shattered on the wood stage, sharp slivers of glass landing on the stage and the floor.
“Excellent,” Yannick said.
Margaret squeezed my hand.
Jonathan Beene was openly staring at me, his face a question mark. Was I still angry with him? That seemed silly. It was so long ago. He did not exist for me. He was not even a part of my thoughts.
Judy snorted.
A young woman quickly appeared onstage and began to clean up the glass; she clearly wasn't janitorial staff, probably a graduate student. She was wearing a blue suit and a blue headband, but was on her hands and knees with a dustpan. I wished they had sent a guy to clean up the mess. Jonathan Beene stepped away from the podium, waiting for her to be done. He continued to stare.
It was completely uncool on his part. He was a multimillionaire. I thought by now he must be cool. But he must have been surprised to see me. I was surprised to be there, too. I tried to remember what day of the week it was. It escaped me. I worried that I had forgotten to pick the news and then remembered I had taken time off. We stared at each other. I absently pulled a strand of hair into my mouth.
“Bad habit,” Judy said.
I pulled the hair away. I did not like to be criticized. That was the kind of thing Hans would point out. My mother.
“Sorry,” Judy said.
I appreciated the apology.
“Well,” Jonathan Beene said to the audience, the stage clean. The images still brightened the screen behind his head. “I think I have said all that I want to say. Thank you for having me.”
He was still looking at me. I thought he might cry.
Poor Jonathan Beene, I thought. Which was funny, considering.
M
ARGARET, YANNICK AND I ARGUED
about going to the reception. “There is a reception?” I said.
No one had told me there was a reception. My plan had been simply to go to the lecture. To sit in the back of the room, observe. Nothing more. It had not occurred to me that Jonathan Beene would see me.
“The signs,” Judy said.
“He clearly wants to talk to you,” Margaret said.
“He is so in love with you,” Yannick said.
“You are so not a genius,” I said to Yannick.
“Whoever said that?” Yannick gave Margaret a dirty look. I felt bad. I didn't want to make trouble between them. I just did not appreciate his running commentary.
“You say that about yourself all the time Yannick,” Margaret said.
“Well, that's different,” Yannick said. “That is me mocking my intellect.”
I just wanted off of the Stanford campus. I wanted out of the situation I had gotten myself into.
“I want to go home,” I said, but I realized I didn't know where that was. Not Margaret's rented house. Not Diego's condo. Not the apartment in Queens that I shared with Hans.
I didn't want to go there either. I did not have a home. I wanted off of the campus.
“I want to leave,” I said.
Margaret looked at her watch. “Let's go for a drive. Or we can take you home, Leah, and still make it back for the reception.”
“We are not invited to business parties,” Yannick said.
“I was.” I looked at Margaret. “I told you,” she said. “He knows I am at Stanford. He invited me. Haverford is a small community.”
“I was kicked out,” I told Yannick.
“You left,” Margaret said gently.
We drove back to Margaret's house. She pulled past Judy's red car in front of the house and into the driveway.
“That car is yours?” Yannick asked. “Let's go for a motherfucking drive.”
“You don't talk like that,” Margaret said.
Yannick also did not have a driver's license.
“I don't want to drive it,” I said.
“Well, I do,” Margaret said.
“
T
HIS CAR WANTS TO GO
fast,” Margaret said.
“Don't,” I said.
I found myself crossing my fingers.
“I used to drive fast, back in Illinois,” she said. “Back in the cornfields.”
This was something I did not know about her. Yannick seemed surprised, too. I was sitting in the backseat. It was the first time I had ever sat there. It was beyond uncomfortable. My knees were pretty much even with my head. Yannick checked his seat belt.
“Maybe you should drive a little bit slower, Margaret,” he said.
“Judy liked to drive fast,” I said. “But not like this.”
They didn't hear me. Maybe I was whispering. We also had the windows open, the radio on. I needed to tell her, to tell her what had happened to me, driving. How the mechanic helped me pull over. But I didn't say anything. I did not know why. Maybe I was curious, wanted to see what would happen, what Judy's car would do. Margaret was displaying, once again, a new side to her, one I did not like. A Bruce Springsteen song came on, but Bruce Springsteen was always on the radio, there was nothing unusual about that.
“I love this song,” Margaret said, pressing on the gas. We
were on Highway 101, going much too fast. I could not see the speedometer from the backseat. At least, I thought, I would not have to explain myself to Hans if I died in a car accident. This way, he could mourn me and it would be easy, easier than getting a divorce, packing up my apartment. I would never look at my novel again. I looked out the window. It was an ugly highway, industrial. If this were the movies, speeding toward our death, we would at least be on Highway 1, driving by the ocean. Judy's red car would be a convertible. Judy had died in this car. I still didn't know why she wanted me to have it. I did not want to die in her car. Please, I thought.
“Slow down,” I said to Margaret, loudly this time, but she could not hear me because of a police siren.
“Something strange is happening,” Margaret said.
She was nervous now, I could see it in her fingers, the way she gripped the wheel.
The police siren, it turned out, was for us.
“Pull over,” Yannick told Margaret. “Pull over, Margaret. Pull the fuck over.”
He was scared, too. Margaret blinked. I hoped that did not impede her ability to see the road.
“I am trying,” she said. “I have to slow down first. I can't just slam to a stop. And I need to find a way to pull over. There are other cars on the road. I can't just pull over.”
We were in the left lane, cleared of cars, as if an entire highway had gotten out of the way of Judy's red car. Margaret signaled and she angled the car into the middle lane. And then signaled again into the right, and then, finally pulled over onto the shoulder. The police car was right behind us, bright lights flashing.
The officer asked for license and registration, just like in the movies. “Okay,” Margaret said. “I am sorry.”
Margaret was crying. Fortunately, she had her license. She gave that to the officer and her campus ID.
“This I don't need,” he said, kindly. “Just the registration.”
I did not know if I had the registration. I was not sure if I could prove that I owned the car. I was waiting for Judy, wanting her to say something for herself. Because I did not believe that Margaret would drive like that on her own. Which meant what? That the spirit of my dead boss had entered her body and put her foot on the gas?
“Check the glove compartment,” I told Yannick.
It was right where it was supposed to be, the registration and also Judy's insurance papers.
“This car belong to you?” he asked Margaret.
“Me,” I said from the back. “It belongs to me. My friend died and she left it to me in her will.”
“Stay in the car,” he said. “I am going to run these.”
“Holy shit,” Yannick said.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“Why are you sorry?” Margaret snapped. “I was the one who was driving. I want to get out of this car. Do you think I can get out?”
“I think we should wait,” I said. “I don't think police like sudden movement.”
“Margaret is a white girl from Stanford,” Yannick said. “She can get out of the car.”
“I don't think you should,” I said.
The police officer returned.
“You are going to have to get this automobile registered in your name, miss,” he told me.
I nodded.
He wrote out a ticket to Margaret.
“I am sorry, officer,” Margaret said.
“Wait until you see the ticket,” he said.
“A lot?” Margaret asked.
“You were going considerably over the speed limit.”
“I felt some strange feeling come over me,” she said.
It was the wrong thing to say.
“I am going to have to ask you to step out of the car,” the police officer said.
“Can we get out, too?” I asked him.
There was something scary about sitting in a parked car on the shoulder of the road. The car shook every time a truck passed. I thought the police officer would say no, but he looked at us, me and Yannick, and said, “Go ahead.”
Actually it was surprising that he hadn't asked before. He was not done with us. He asked Margaret to walk in a straight line, which she wasn't quite able to do.
“I feel a little bit wobbly,” she said. “I am so nervous. I am not drunk. I swear.”
“You're fine, Margaret,” Yannick called.
“Can he hold my hand?”
“Got to do it yourself, sweetheart,” the officer said.
Margaret tried again and she was able to walk in a straight line. The police officer then gave her a Breathalyzer test, which she also passed.
“I would never drink and drive,” she said.
“Good thing,” he said. “I have a feeling you are going to think twice again about speeding.”
Margaret nodded. Yannick came over to her side and held her hand. I liked him again, how sweet he was. He didn't say, What were you thinking, driving so fast? He just held her hand.
“I don't think I can drive home,” Margaret told the police officer.
He looked at us.
“I don't have a driver's license,” Yannick said.
The police officer looked at me.
I shook my head.
We stood there. I thought maybe we would have to get the red car towed. I would pay for it. I wondered what that cost. I wondered what I was thinking, driving the car to Palo Alto. But I hadn't sped. I had not gotten pulled over. I had driven under the speed limit, annoying other cars on the road, constantly passed, but safe.
The police officer had a partner.
“Get in the police car. We'll take you home.”
The three of us squished in together in the backseat, behind the police grate, as if we had been arrested, but we had not been arrested, only ticketed, and this drive home was an act of kindness. We did not speak. The police officer did not know that Yannick was a genius, only that he had dark skin and dreadlocks. But they treated us okay, all of us. The police officer drove us to back to Margaret's house and the other officer drove Judy's red car, parking it back in the street where we started.
“I might have to throw up,” Margaret said.
“
H
OLY SHIT,” MARGARET SAID.
I had changed out of my black dress, into a pair of black leggings and my kitten T-shirt. Yannick brought out a bottle of wine. Margaret sat cross-legged on the couch, studying the speeding ticket. It was in the amount of $540.00 and it would also be reported to her insurance company, which would probably increase the cost of her policy. “Fuck,” Margaret said.