The Red Car (16 page)

Yannick poured Jonathan a whiskey.

I had no words for Jonathan Beene. I was still just so grateful that he was not Hans. And what did that tell me? My profound gratitude that the man at the door was not Hans. Jonathan Beene got up off his knees. He sat in an armchair in his blazer and white shirt with his whiskey. We were all grown-ups. Margaret told him about the speeding ticket.

“I have a red car,” I said. “A sports car.”

It felt impolite not to talk at all.

Jonathan Beene tilted his head to the side, like a confused dog. “I didn't notice it,” he said.

We all went outside to look at Judy's car. I could swear that the door, the door where another car had crashed into Judy, killing her, had begun caving inward. I remembered the day when Judy first showed the car to me, in the parking lot of our office building, pretty much demanding that I admire it. We had gone out for tapas. We drank sangria. We had made a toast, to our future good fortune.

“That doesn't look like a car you would drive,” Jonathan said. Which made me wonder, how would he know what kind
of car I would drive? And why had he reported us to the honor board. Jesus. I had not gotten over that. What kind of fucking idiot would do that?

“What kind of car do you drive?” I asked.

“Subaru,” he said.

Yannick laughed. “I thought you would say Prius,” he said.

“They were sold out. Waiting list was a year long. Subarus are energy efficient and reliable. I don't require an ostentatious car.”

It was so quiet in the suburbs of Palo Alto. Almost as if we were in the woods. I could see the flickering lights of a TV inside the house across the street. The sky was black, full of stars. A skinny sliver of a moon. The air felt good, crisp and clean. Summer was better in California. I heard the voice of Hans, telling me what a shithole it was in Queens, where we lived. But I sort of liked it there. I liked the Mexican restaurant where we ate tacos. I liked the subway station at Steinway Street, I even liked waiting for the train. But there were never any stars.

It was a gorgeous night. Jonathan Beene stood next me. We were the same height. He smelled nice. Was it possible? He smelled like college.

W
E SAT ON THE STEPS
of Margaret's house, looking at the stars. Just me and Jonathan Beene.

“Where do you live?” I asked finally.

“New York,” he said. “How about you?”

“Me, too,” I said. “What neighborhood are you in?”

“Tribeca,” he said. “I have a loft. What about you?”

“Astoria,” I said. “I rent an apartment.”

“I went to Astoria once,” he said.

“You went to a Greek restaurant,” I said.

“How did you know?”

I shrugged.

I met them all the time, people from Manhattan, proud of themselves for taking the train into Queens to eat at a Greek restaurant. I rarely went to Greek restaurants. They were expensive, they did not thrill me. Margaret and Yannick had gone back inside. It seemed on purpose, a decision to leave us alone. But I did not want to be left alone with Jonathan Beene. That was not why I came to Palo Alto. I didn't know why I had come to Palo Alto.

“So you don't know what you want,” Judy said.

This seemed like one of her lamer observations.

“I am normally a very articulate person,” Jonathan Beene
said. “I frequently speak in front of large groups of people. What I say matters.”

I nodded. It made sense, that success would make you arrogant. I would like that for myself, a degree of arrogance.

“You broke a water glass,” I observed. “That was pretty smooth.”

“That happened because I saw you,” he said.

“I read about you,” I told him. “Maybe a year ago, in
The New York Times
.”

“You read that article?”

“I was at my parents' house,” I said. “I was eating a bagel with cream cheese.” I wondered why I added that detail.

“You read it,” he repeated.

“I did.”

“You didn't call me.”

I turned my head to look at Jonathan Beene, to see if he was serious. It seemed like such a strange thing to say.

“The article didn't list your phone number,” I said. Though that wasn't an honest answer. “I guess it never occurred to me to call you,” I said, slowly. “I was happy for you. I remember thinking to myself, Wow, you are successful.”

This, of course, would be a reason not to call him.

“I always wanted to be your boyfriend,” he said.

“I knew that.”

“You really hurt me,” he said.

I stretched out my arms, lacing my fingers together, and then setting them back down on my lap. There I was, having this conversation with Jonathan Beene. “You really hurt me, too,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

He took my hand.

I observed my hand, my fingers now interlaced with Jonathan's. I took it back. “That was a long time ago,” I said.

“I guess so.”

“Anyway, it's like you said. You are a major success and I am a nobody. So, it all worked out.”

“No,” Judy and Jonathan said, simultaneously.

I laughed. They seemed to cancel each other out. No response seemed necessary.

“I would take it back now,” Jonathan said.

“Which part?” I said. “The sex or the honor council?”

“The honor council. Jesus. What a fucking idiot. I would take back the honor council. The sex was like the best thing that ever happened to me. You blew my mind. The honor council. My god. I just wanted you to love me and you didn't. You wanted money,” he said. “It made me crazy.”

“It was just a game,” I said.

“I was so mad. Because you were playing with me. But I didn't realize how lucky I was.”

“No one had sex at Haverford College,” I said.

“I still want to apologize to you.”

“All these years later,” I said.

“I am sorry, Leah. Really sorry.”

I felt something in me loosen, break apart almost. It made me feel so happy to hear the exact words I wanted to hear. The moment was something I would have written if I could have, it felt so perfect. Only I hadn't known how much I wanted it. I thought I had forgotten about him.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are welcome,” he said.

I felt the grin spread across my face, from ear to ear. Like a Cheshire cat. I started to laugh. Jonathan Beene gazed back at me. “Why are you laughing?” he said.

There, in front of me, was Judy's red car, the car that had killed her. I did not know what I was supposed to do about that.

“I feel happy,” I said.

I took his hand, our fingers interlaced.

“You were never happy in college,” he said.

Jonathan Beene was smiling, smiling at me.

That was the thing, I was starting to realize. I liked it, being happy.

I
DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS
supposed to do next.

“Huh, Judy?” I said.

It was the middle of the night. Jonathan Beene was asleep in what was supposed to be my bedroom, Stella's old room. He had wanted to sleep with me. I had said no. “I am married,” I said.

“You are?”

I appreciated the disappointment on his face. I appreciated how being married made this conversation easy for me. I did not have to hurt his feelings. I did not tell Jonathan about Diego or the other Lea. He didn't need to know. I wondered what my life would be like, if I were to have sex with Jonathan Beene. Maybe I would be able to go back with him to his loft in Tribeca. My life would be significantly better. Somehow, that seemed wrong. Like prostitution. I also did not want to have sex with him. I was tired.

Instead, I found a blanket, a pillow, and settled in on the couch. I wanted to sleep but I couldn't sleep. I read Judy's letter again. There was the part about money, how she had left me money. I wanted the money. I did not know how to kick Hans out of my apartment, our apartment, because he would have nowhere to go. The easiest solution seemed like leaving.

“That's running,” Judy said.

But I didn't want to live in that apartment anymore. Somehow, I had lived there for five years. Five years had passed. For five years, I had lived in an apartment on an ugly block with an auto repair shop on the corner, constantly tormented by the noise made in that shop. This summer, it had been the swimming pool in the yard, making me feel crazy. I wanted out.

“Not running,” I said. Or maybe it was running. “So what?” I said.

I had always admired people who went running. Runners. People who ran marathons. People who could run two miles. Even that seemed impossible. They seemed like better people than I was.

“I am not judging,” Judy said.

But she had been judging me all along.

Her letter also asked me to go the bat mitzvah of her niece in Philadelphia. The date was coming up. “Philadelphia?” I said. “Really?”

I fell asleep with the letter on my lap, my contact lenses still in. I woke up to Margaret sitting next to me, bright light streaming in from the windows. Margaret was wearing her professor clothes, her hair pulled back.

She had put a cup of coffee on the coffee table for me. “Jonathan already left,” she said. “He wrote you a letter.” I saw the piece of paper, folded in half, next to my cup of coffee. “You can stay as long as you want,” she said. “I have to teach.”

Yannick came out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of cereal. He sat in the armchair. I liked it, this sense of camaraderie in their living room. It seemed like an episode of
Friends
. It had never felt this good before, living with roommates. Living with Hans.

“Did you get lucky?” Yannick asked.

“That is disgusting,” Margaret said. “And you know they slept in different rooms.”

I carefully picked up my cup of coffee. Margaret had filled the mug to the rim.

“He is worth a lot of money,” Yannick said.

“That seems like a strange thing for an anthropologist to say,” I said. I sipped my coffee. It was good coffee. Strong. I could stay there, in Margaret's house, she had said so. It was an appealing idea. Our life could be a sitcom. I would play the role of the wacky friend who came to visit and never left.

“Anthropologists have to get by in this world,” Yannick said. “We can't live on grant money alone.”

“Well, maybe you can,” Margaret said.

Yannick shrugged.

“I am going to have to wing today's lecture,” Margaret said. “I hate that. I drank too much last night. Again.”

“Did you take any aspirin?” Yannick asked.

“Two,” Margaret said. “My body is not forgiving me. I think I am going to make the students write in class.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

I was just waking up, but it didn't seem like I had a hangover. I felt great, somehow, fresh, clear.

“You don't have to be sorry,” Margaret said.

“But it is my fault,” I said.

“I am not going to drink for a month,” Margaret said.

“Or until dinner,” Yannick said.

I looked at Margaret.

“We do drink wine with dinner,” she said. “But I don't get drunk. I won't. I have too much work to do.”

I thought about dinner. Margaret was a vegetarian. She used to make nice pastas. There was always cheese. The wine. The brownies. But I could not stay there, in her house. She had work to do. She had made a life for herself. It was a nice life. I envied it. I wondered what Jonathan Beene had written to me in his letter.

“Another letter,” Judy said.

Which was better than whatever was waiting for me in my email.

“I am sorry you are behind,” I told Margaret again.

Margaret shook her head. “I am a grown-up,” she said. “I make my own choices. We had fun.”

“I should go, too,” I said. “I don't want to.”

“You don't have to go.”

“I do,” I said. “I have things I need to do. You have been the greatest.”

“Sweetie,” Margaret said.

I got up from the couch. Margaret gave me the biggest, most wonderful hug.

“You are going to be okay,” she said.

I
PUT THE KEYS IN JUDY'S
red car.

“Please don't kill me,” I said.

The obvious place to go was back to Diego's condo in San Francisco. But when I got on the highway, I realized that I had taken the wrong ramp, going south instead of north. There was a large concrete divider in between the lanes. I felt a strange urge, as if coming from the red car, to go ahead and jump it. And I didn't know why the red car would try to kill me, why Judy would send me out on this path if she was also trying to kill me.

The thing to do was take the first exit, make a safe and legal U-turn, head back in the right direction, but I was in the middle lane, driving five miles over the speed limit the way my father once taught me. I was not speeding like Margaret. I was not going too slow. I was in control of the red car. I did not feel like I was in control of the red car. My hands were gripping the steering wheel, much too tight. I looked at my bent knuckles on my hands and realized I should be looking at the road. There were cars behind me, in front of me, on my left, on my right. I should not have been driving this red car on a crowded highway. I drove for over an hour, safe in the middle lane, willing myself to switch lanes. I no longer knew where I was going. It did not seem to matter. I pictured the hippie mechanic, picking
up the car at a junkyard, shaking his head, wishing it would have worked out differently. He would have sold it for me. We would have slept together. It would not have been terrible sex. I would not be dead.

“You are not dead, dummy,” Judy said.

“Thanks, Judy,” I said.

“You'll see,” she answered.

“See what?” I said.

I saw a turnoff to Highway 1.