A Second Bite at the Apple (11 page)

A flashlight? A flashlight. What kind of sick, crazy, creepy freak asks you to bring a flashlight on a date? This is a recipe for disaster already. I should have broken my promise and backed out while I still had the chance. But I didn't, and now I'm going to pay the price.

When Saturday night arrives, I board an Orange Line train, which whooshes through the underground tunnels, heading south to the Smithsonian Metro stop on the National Mall. I sit on one of the orange vinyl seats, across from a man wearing red, white, and blue, who is holding a sign that reads, TEABAGGING 4 JESUS. I'm not sure whether this is a parody or a case of linguistic confusion, but given that this is Washington, anything is possible.

My oversize purse sits in my lap, weighing about fifty pounds thanks to the flashlight hidden inside. I stopped by Ace Hardware this morning, hoping to find something petite and feminine and refined, but the manager informed me they didn't carry flashlights bearing that description. In fact, thanks to the snowstorms a few months back, combined with the threat of new storms that never materialized, they sold out of most of their smaller flashlights and have yet to restock. So, instead, I'm stuck with a seventy-dollar flashlight the length of my forearm.

The train reaches the Smithsonian stop at 6:55 p.m., and my teabagging buddy pushes ahead of me onto the platform and then rushes ahead of me onto the escalator, where he stands firmly on the left-hand side, breaking that holy Washington rule: Stand on the right; walk on the left. I try my best to squeeze by him, but his girth takes up nearly the entire stairway, and I cannot.

When we reach the top, Jeremy is standing a few feet from the entrance, wearing a black nylon bomber jacket and a pair of dark jeans. He holds a brown paper bag in his left hand and grips a backpack slung over his shoulder with his right. He smiles when he sees me.

“New friend?” he asks, nodding toward the Teabagger 4 Jesus, who is now holding his sign high and shouting as he marches down the Mall.

I offer a wry smile. “We're dating, actually.”

“See? I knew there was someone else.”

“Well, I mean, can you blame me?”

We watch the man thrust his sign up and down as he leads his protest of one. Jeremy grins. “I understand the attraction.”

I glance around the Mall, which glows in the warm light of the sunset. The museums and other buildings are framed by a froth of blossoms on the cherry trees, which, on this final weekend in March, have finally started to bloom. “So . . . what's the plan? Time to bust out the flashlight?”

“Not yet,” he says. “First I thought we'd have a little picnic. You game?”

“When it comes to eating, I'm always game.”

“That's what I like to hear.”

He leads me over to a wooden bench across from the National Gallery of Art and gestures for me to have a seat. He plops down and tosses his backpack next to him, leaving the paper bag between us.

“Okay!” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Here's the deal. I didn't know what you'd want to eat, so I made a few different things. First, since you mentioned you grew up on the Main Line, I decided to make some Philly-style sandwiches.” He reaches into the paper bag. “Classic Italian hoagie, or chicken cutlet?”

“Hmm . . . not sure . . .”

“She's not impressed. Okay. Moving on.”

“No, no—both sound good. I just—”

“There's more where that came from, so slow down.” He reaches into the paper bag again. “You mentioned you've always wanted to visit Thailand, so I made a classic Thai green papaya salad. And”—he reaches into the bag one last time—“you said
The Godfather
is one of your favorite movies, so I made cannoli.”

“You made cannoli?”

“Well, I only made the filling. I bought the shells.”

I study the piles of food sitting between us on the bench. “How long did all this cooking take you? All day?”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Not important. What's important is that there is something among these choices that you actually might want to eat. Anything sound appealing?”

“All of it, actually.”

He slaps his thigh. “Excellent. Take your pick.”

I grab the Italian hoagie and a napkin. The sandwich reminds me of the ones my family would order almost every Friday night for takeout when I was growing up. Friday was “Mom's night off” from cooking because, she told us, even stay-at-home moms deserved a night off. Sometimes we'd order pizza or Chinese, but more often than not, we'd order cheesesteaks and hoagies, and my sister and I would strike the same deal: one turkey hoagie, one Italian hoagie, split evenly between the two of us. She would always complain that I got the bigger half of each sandwich, and I would correct her that, technically speaking, there cannot be a bigger half, so she was wrong. Looking back on it, I'm pretty sure that was one of many examples where, in a social context, I won the battle but lost the war.

I take a bite, and although the sandwich does not replicate the hoagies of my youth with outright precision, it comes pretty damn close. The spicy, garlicky Genoa salami is layered with thin slices of capocollo, prosciutto, and provolone cheese and sprinkled with shredded lettuce, thinly sliced onions, and tomatoes. The whole thing is doused in oil and vinegar and dusted with oregano and transports me to those Friday nights in my youth. I applaud Jeremy's boldness: Between the garlicky meat and the abundance of onions, my breath is guaranteed to smell horrible for the remainder of the evening.

Jeremy pulls two brown glass bottles from his backpack and pops off the caps with a bottle opener on his key chain.

“Homebrewed American wheat ale,” he says, handing me a bottle, which is labeled
Brauer's Brew
. “Made by yours truly.”

I hold the bottle up to what little light remains in the sky. “You even made the beer? Impressive.”

“I've been working on this one for a while. I think I finally got the recipe right.”

I take a sip, and the flavor of the beer blossoms in my mouth, bright and lemony with just a touch of bitterness. “Wow, that's really good. So is the hoagie, actually—considering it was made by an outsider.”

He tries to contain his satisfied smile and takes a sip of his beer, and then he reaches out and clinks the neck of his bottle against mine.

“Cheers,” he says. “To second chances.”

 

By eight, we've finished our food, and evening has rolled in, snuffing out the light from the sky. Jeremy crumples up the napkins and trash and stuffs them into the paper bag, while I lick the sweet ricotta cannoli filling from my fingers.

“So what's next?”

Jeremy hops up and dumps the paper bag in a trashcan, then saunters toward the bench and reaches into his backpack. “Got your flashlight?”

“Yep.” I reach into my purse and pull out my fourteen-inch abomination.

Jeremy's eyes widen. “Dude, that's like . . . a light saber.”

“What? Shut up. It's a flashlight. It was the only one left at Ace Hardware.”

Jeremy takes it from my hands. “Seriously, look at this thing.” He flicks on the light, grips the shaft with both hands, and begins wielding it back and forth. “I am Obi-Wan Kenobi—feel my power!”

“You're imitating a
Star Wars
character? And I'm the loser in this scenario?”

“Hey, George Lucas was a visionary.”

I snatch it back from him. “Just—give me the damn flashlight.”

“Listen, I like a girl who's prepared. If anything, I'm impressed.” He grabs a much smaller flashlight from his backpack. “Okay,” he says. “Let's do this.”

We wander west across the National Mall, guided through the darkness by the piercing white of the Washington Monument, the towering obelisk lit up like a searchlight. I haven't spent any time down here at night, and I cannot believe how dark it is, how different everything looks in the camouflage of night. Before the sun set, the Mall bustled with activity and color—the fluffy white-and-pink cherry blossoms, the green lawn, the museums made of maroon bricks and pale limestone. But now, it's as if someone turned out the overhead lights and flicked on the monuments, which punctuate the city like a series of reading lamps.

Jeremy leads me down Independence Avenue and then cuts across a dark, grassy area studded with trees, heading toward the Tidal Basin. As we draw closer, the moon peeks through the branches, huge and bright, but soon I realize it isn't the moon at all; it's the Jefferson Memorial, its smooth dome glowing on the other side of the shimmering reservoir. We cross a busy road and come upon a small parking lot with a big, white tent, set just behind the broad wooden dock housing the Tidal Basin's paddle boats.

“I am not paddle boating in the dark,” I say.

“Neither am I.” He shines his flashlight in my eyes. “They aren't open, anyway.”

I swat his hand away. “Then what
are
you doing?”

“Taking you on a lantern tour around the Tidal Basin. The Cherry Blossom Festival just started today. Come on.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward a small group of people standing in front of the white tent. A mustached park ranger wearing a padded, olive-green jacket stands at the center of the group, holding what appears to be an asymmetrical wooden cross with a lit Japanese paper lantern dangling from the end. He is in the middle of telling the group some scintillating factoid about the origins of the Tidal Basin, but he stops mid-sentence when he sees us approach.

“Greetings, latecomers!” he says. “Welcome. Do you have your flashlights handy?”

I wave mine in the air. The park ranger raps his wooden cross against the pavement and lets out a belly laugh. “Well, how about that? Look at that thing! It's bigger than you are. You could light up the whole city!”

The crowd turns and stares at my enormous flashlight, confirming that, yes, it is enormous and, yes, I could light up the whole city.

“Anywho,” the ranger says, “come along. We were just getting started.”

He leads us around the basin, walking north as he talks about the tulips in the surrounding flowerbeds. Even with my light saber, I have trouble seeing where I'm going and what this guy is talking about.

“Now, folks, if you look straight north from this spot, that's where they originally wanted to construct the Washington Monument. If you draw a straight line south from the White House and a straight line west from the Capitol, that's where they wanted it to be. But it didn't end up there. And do you know why?”

“Because the ground wasn't structurally sound,” I say.

Everyone turns and looks at me. The ranger beams. “That's exactly right.” He lets out a hearty laugh. “She's ‘bright' in more ways than one, folks.”

The crowd chuckles in unison, amused by a man who resembles a bloated cartoon character and who, in spite of this fact, feels comfortable making jokes at my expense. He gives me a jovial pat on the back, lets out a toothy guffaw, and raises his hand to give Jeremy an awkward high five.

This date cannot end soon enough.

Unfortunately, our nocturnal expedition continues for what feels like days. By the time we reach the site where the first cherry trees were planted in 1912, we've been at this for forty-five minutes and have only covered a quarter of the walking tour. We have also acknowledged the immensity of my flashlight on at least ten occasions.

As our park ranger discusses the first cherry trees, Jeremy nudges me in the side.

“Hey,” he whispers in my ear. “Follow me.”

He takes my hand and gently backs away from the crowd, slipping into the darkness. He tiptoes around the Tidal Basin's western bend, slinking with me along the narrow path and away from the crowd.

“What are you doing? He was just saying something interesting about Helen Taft.”

“I want to show you something,” he says.

“Aren't you already showing me something? Aren't you the one who brought me on this tour to begin with?”

“Stop arguing with me and come on.”

We follow the curve of the Tidal Basin, ducking beneath the branches that stretch over the path. As we move along, we come upon a knotted cherry tree that leans diagonally across the walkway, as if it is trying to dip its fluffy, flower-coated branches into the reservoir.

“Watch it,” Jeremy says, pressing his palm against the back of my head and forcing me to duck. “You almost whacked yourself on that branch.”

“Maybe if it weren't pitch-black, I would have been able to see it.”

“Maybe if you weren't trying so hard not to have a good time, you'd be able to see how cool this is.”

We reach a broad granite stairway, on the opposite side of the Tidal Basin from the Washington Monument, and he pushes me up the steps, his hand on the small of my back. As I grip the railing, I hear the unmistakable crash of a waterfall, the whoosh of water cascading to the ground. The sound intensifies as we reach the top and continue straight ahead, guided by the gentle uplighting and shadows across the expansive slate plaza.

Jeremy pushes ahead, his hands tucked into the pockets of his nylon jacket, and stops before an illuminated waterfall to his left, where a wide sheet of water crashes to the ground.

“The FDR Memorial,” he says. He points to the waterfall. “This is supposed to represent the economic crash that led to the Great Depression.”

He leads me across the exhibit, a sprawling display documenting the four terms of FDR's presidency, each term occupying its own outdoor space. We meander from section to section, weaving our way through the waterfalls and sculptures and plantings. Jeremy shuffles toward a wall with a series of tactile reliefs and runs his fingers across the surface.

“I love it here at night,” he says. “There's a certain magic you miss during the day.”

I glance up, taking in the stars, which shine brightly in the clear night sky. As I trace the outlines of the constellations with my eyes, I feel him move closer, the warmth from his body tingling the back of my neck. I whip my head around and meet his stare, halting his approach. He smiles nervously and scratches his jaw.

“You can really see the stars out here, huh?”

I nod and walk toward another installation in the exhibit, keeping the distance between us. I look up at the sky again. “When I was about five or six, I wanted to be an astronaut,” I say. “Isn't that weird?”

He grins. “Not at all. I did, too.”

“Really?”

“What kid didn't want to be an astronaut? Floating through space, eating space ice cream—it sounded like the coolest job ever.”

He smiles and draws closer. “See? We have more in common than our interest in Bach and food writing.”

My cheeks grow hot at the mention of food writing. I wonder if he knows that I know about his past.

“So do you want to rejoin the tour?” Jeremy finally says, nodding over his shoulder.

“Oh. Sure. I guess?”

“We don't have to,” he says. “We could always just walk around the Tidal Basin by ourselves. Or go home.”

“Let's just wander toward the Jefferson Memorial and see if they catch up with us. Okay?”

He smiles. “Sure. Okay.”

We walk back down the granite stairway, our shoulders nearly touching, and turn right at the bottom, heading back along the narrow path surrounding the Tidal Basin. Jeremy stands to the left of me, providing a buffer from the edge of the basin, and I reach into my bag and pull out my battery-operated monstrosity, lighting the path in front of us. Jeremy reaches down and grabs my left hand, caressing my fingers, and for a moment my entire body stiffens. I shouldn't be on this date. We shouldn't be holding hands. But as we walk along, my shoulders relax, and I remember why I fell for him after our first date.

He rubs his thumb against mine. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way,” he says.

My mouth goes dry. I'm not the kind of girl people call beautiful. Interesting, maybe, or cute, but not beautiful. My face is too narrow, and I have too many freckles, and my ears stick out a little too much. No one except my parents calls me beautiful, and even they tend to favor gentler words like “pretty” and “lovely.” I guess Zach used to call me beautiful sometimes, but look how that turned out.

Given that I've never been good with accepting a compliment, especially one about my looks, I'm not sure how to respond. So, instead of saying “thank you” like a normal person, I reply in the awkward fashion I seem to have mastered. I say, “You're just saying that because you want to get in my pants.”

Jeremy whips his head around, his mouth hanging open. “What?”

But before he can indulge his shock, he walks smack into a thick cherry tree branch that stretches across the path, cracking his forehead against the gnarled piece of wood.

“Jesus!” He lets go of my hand and grips his head, hunching over as he groans.

“Sorry—I'm sorry.” I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for my ill-chosen words or for walking him straight into a cherry tree, but either way, I'm pretty sure this is all my fault.

“Ouch!” he shouts, as he continues to massage his head.

“Here—let me help.” I reach out and grab his arm, but when I lift him up, I knock his head into the branch for the second time.

“Damn it!”

He stumbles backward, gripping his head, and I find myself in the midst of one of those moments when I know exactly what is about to happen but, like in a nightmare, can do nothing to stop it. I see him stumbling, I see the water, and I see the cracked edge of the pathway at the water's edge, but before I can say anything—before I can shout “Stop!” or “Water!” or “Look out!”—Jeremy takes one more step backward, and the next thing I hear is a yelp and a plop and a splash, as he plunges into the Tidal Basin.