“How do you know I don’t? It’s been three years since we were roomies.”
“You never would have used a word like ‘roomies’ before. Where’s your accent?”
His face is all creases and flat, blunt planes. His tongue juts and he licks his lips. He’s got more to say but I jump in.
“You never used to give a damn what anyone thought of you. The world got to you, Fruggy. You let it eat you up.”
“We all care. I just didn’t let anyone know that I did.”
Maybe it’s true. Maybe I care as much as he does. It doesn’t feel that way.
I head back to the counter, get a few fresh burgers, a couple orders of fries, bag it, and hand it to him.
“Thank you for visiting Cabo Wabo Burger. Please come see us again soon.”
Despite all the jobs and the work I do in Mrs. Manfreddi’s yard, shifting tons of earth and lumber every day, sleep continues to avoid me. I have hours after midnight to burn through. I’ve tried to find a job as a security guard, but there’s nothing available in our small town. It leads me out onto the street. I walk the neighborhoods. I circle the entire town. I walk past Professor Chadwick’s house two or three times, then lean against a tree down the block and stare at his front porch. The hedges behind me are high, the moon only a sliver.
I watch Hal moving across the brightly lit rooms, the windows without a speck of dirt or dust. His Ecuadorian maid spends an hour every morning washing them down.
He has homes in Manhattan and Los Angeles, and a cabin right on the beach in Martinique. But Hal spends most of the year right in our small town. Giving back and paying forward.
I’m immensely patient. I stand there as the cool night continues to pass. Hal’s at the computer, on the phone, watching television. He pops in a DVD and I wonder if he’s watching one of his own movies. He’s done the commentary to them. He’s got cameos in all three flicks.
I wait in the darkness. I let it pass through me. I dream on my feet, writing in my head, thinking of the next tree that’s got to fall.
At two A.M. Beth turns the corner and comes walking up the street. I fade back even farther into the hedges. Beth is beautiful, draped in silver moonlight. The nerves in my fingertips burn to touch her. If not her, then my typewriter keys.
Beth steps up the walkway to Hal’s house and knocks on the screen door softly, too softly. Then she thumps with the side of her fist and is embarrassed at the harsh noise. She rubs her hands together and then tightens her arms around her belly, hugging herself. She turns back to face the street as if checking to see if anyone is watching. She’s nervous. She trembles in the chill breeze. Her bangs flap one way across her face and then the other.
Hal comes to the door. He doesn’t look happy to see her. How can he not be happy to see her? I say it aloud, whispering, “How?” He’s anxious and a touch angry. They quarrel for a moment and Hal stands in the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. He shakes his head and Beth nods vigorously and he shakes his head some more.
Beth breaks down and begins to cry. I take a step toward her. It’s all I can do. She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t want me. All of my love isn’t worth a foot-high stack of ink-stained paper to her. I drop back and watch Hal lift her chin so that she faces him. He stares at her tear-strewn face and something in him softens. He reaches out and pulls her into his arms, where she begins to sob uncontrollably. He leads her into the house and the door swiftly shuts.
I stand in the dark thinking, Oh God.
The next day, Beth isn’t in class.
Hal has a slight scratch on his cheek.
We’re sliding into finals. Beth’s been out of class all week long. We have projects. We have our contest. Jodi writes about her father. Matt writes about his mother. Georgie is a rocket man, he tells us what’s happening on distant planets, where astronauts are pursued by alien dinosaurs and intelligent man-eating plant life. Phil, he’s got this ’50s jazzy bop prose thing happening, talking about sweet rides and hot chicks and life on the streets smoking J and blowing ax in darkened gin joints off St. Mark’s Place. Frieda, she’s into parables and world views and heavy themes. She writes about seekers and wanderers and women who climb mountains to find answers from starved Hindi who can hold their breath for six hours. Behind her, Eloise discusses her memoir. She tells us about Atlantis, which resides on the moon, and is the place where all the souls of the dead go to rest while awaiting the Apocalypse. She knows this because, she says, she was born with a caul, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and she has mystical abilities. She allows that some of us might not believe her, but that’s our choice.
Hal discusses each story, whether it’s fiction or not, at length. He praises syntax, lyricism, passionate richness, heartstring reverberation, depth of character, the wellsprings of imagination. The class applauds one another. The class applauds itself.
Hal asks me, “Do you have something to submit for the contest?”
“I do,” I tell him.
He’s surprised. He gives me a smug grin and holds my gaze a few seconds too long. There’s hate there. I don’t mind. He’s not the only one I bring it out in. Eloise glares at me. So does Jerry the Jock. So do others. I smile and try to turn up my charm. It doesn’t help. Hal holds his hand out for my story. I hand it to him and he flips through the pages. It’s a holographic manuscript, full of tiny holes from where the keys have punched through. It clearly hasn’t been written on a computer screen and shot from a laser printer.
“It’s short,” he says.
“It’s not finished yet.”
“Then how can you submit it?”
“Consider it a special instance.”
He cocks his head at me and frowns. For the first time his smarm is gone and there’s something else in his expression, a kind of heat. “Wonderful. Please read it.”
Unlike the others who stand beside their seats and read facing Hal, I walk to the front of the class and turn my back to him. I clear my throat and say, “The title of my story is ‘The Void It Often Brings With It.’ ”
Then I begin.
I recite, “Professor Ferdnick wants us to call him Bill, and Bill is telling us again why he’s a genius. His voice has the mocking quality of arrogance even while he’s trying to sound humble and compassionate. The rest of the class, especially the freshman girls, are hanging—”
Afterwards, the class is quiet. They keep checking Hal for a reaction so they’ll know what they’re supposed to feel and say. But Hal has no reaction. His face is pale and utterly empty. I’ve taken a little wind out of his hair. A mean swirl of darkness appears in his eyes and he hikes his lips into a bitter smile. He says, “Please come see me during my office hours.”
“Sure.”
His office hours are only a half-hour long, directly following class today. I give him a head start up the corridor and then follow.
When I get there his door is shut. He’s going to make me knock. Hal needs his petty victories.
I need mine as well. I walk in without knocking. Hal is in his chair, feet up on his desk, azure eyes glistening. His mind’s racing with contingencies, plot threads, possibilities. His hands are trembling. He’s capable of anything at the moment. His expression is at once playful, lethal, and petrified. I notice that the top desk drawer is open. I wonder what he’s got within easy reach. A letter opener, rat poison, a pearl-handled snub .32? Maybe nothing more than a checkbook. I imagine that Hal has gotten rid of a lot of troubles by handing over a check.
He waits for me to put the touch to him. He wants to know how far I’ll go. I let him see it in the set of my lips. I’m going to go all the way. I think of Beth crying and Hal shaking his head. He reaches out and pulls her into his arms, where she begins to sob uncontrollably. I want to kill him.