Bright Before Us (31 page)

You sat up and turned around.
I know a place we could go.

 

It was a high, pebbly rock wall overlooking a river, and we stayed there for a long time, staring at the toxic-green orbs illuminating the bridge I had crossed. At a liquor store, you had bought condoms—I watched you motion to where they hung behind the counter, expressionless—and two Colt 45s, and we drank from the massive bottles in plain sight of the street. Our legs hung over the edge of the wall as we faced the broad forested edge of New Jersey across the river. Through a thicket of branches the cars passed under our shoes.

Are you happy?
I asked you.

I'm happier than before,
you said.

It's something you have to make.
You looked out at the water.
It's something you have to invent, and then reinvent.

I want to work for it,
I said.
I want to be happy.

You have to stop wanting all the time,
you said.
That's part of it.

We were quiet.

What's that road down there?
I said.

I'll drive you wherever you want to go,
I blurted.

You pointed at the bottle in my hand.

I'm fine,
I said.
I promise.

We walked the few blocks.
Ignore the stench,
I said as we approached my car.

You motioned for me to get in first, because you remembered: the driver-side door didn't open.

I can't believe you remember that,
I said.

I remember,
you said.

Blocks later we approached the on-ramp, heading south.
I have no idea where I'm going. I need you to tell me.

For most of it you just keep going forward,
you said.

 

A few minutes later we were picking up speed. The river seemed too close to the edge of the road, like any second it could sweep us away.

The Hudson,
you said, running a hand through your
hair. When you pulled your hand away a few strands stayed laced in your fingers. You began to roll the window down to drop them outside and I stopped you.

Don't,
I said.

You looked at me.
What?

You did, watching the hair fall. To you, it was a strange request. To me, it was a minor guarantee: at least I would have something of you.

 

I pressed on, the numbers getting smaller: we passed Fourteenth Street.
I think we're about to hit the end,
I said.

It goes past the numbered streets,
you said, sitting up.
After that they're named.

I took a breath.
Greta got pregnant again. She was pregnant when I left.

You looked away.

She's due in less than four months,
I said gravely, uncertain you had heard.

You exploded with ugly laughter. I froze.

Canal,
you said, pointing. It was coming up on our left.
Take Canal Street.

I turned onto a street clogged with people, cars, and signs. Where you lived, almost everything was in Spanish, but here everything was covered in red Chinese script.
This is like San Francisco, sprouted,
I said.
Or San Francisco is like this, stunted.

I never compare them,
you said.
I never think about San Francisco anymore.

Some inner part of me bruised. We stopped at a light and waited for it to turn green. When we moved again,
we dodged in and out of the lane to overtake the slow, monolithic buses. You were smiling strangely, beautifully, like some kind of deranged saint.

Go over the bridge,
you said. A massive stone archway loomed and I sped through it, ascending. At midspan you craned your neck.
Now look to your right. Not yet ... not yet ... okay, now.

I obeyed. And framed by the window I saw another bridge, darker in color and lit with globe lights, the whole thing enshrouded in a web of cables. The picture was whole, the dimensions distinct: the bridge in the background, and in the foreground, your serene countenance. Everything was in that face. The lost happiness. The pain of these two years. Whatever the new pains might be. And the peace you had made with all of it.

I've seen this in pictures,
I said, my eyes oscillating between the road ahead and the view beside us.

Look in your rearview,
you said.

I glanced up and saw a massive collection of shining buildings, leaning at a diagonal in my mirror.

It's beautiful,
I said.

You sank into the seat.
Now you've seen what you came to see.

 

When we got back to your neighborhood, it took twenty minutes to find a parking spot six blocks from your apartment. Inside, there was no discussion. In your bedroom you put on a cotton nightgown and I removed my shoes and shirt. I brushed my teeth again, returning to find the air conditioner blasting and you beneath the massive comforter, your head protruding from the top as though it had
swallowed you. You had your back to me, and I moved into the familiar position we had once held, tightening my arm around your middle. But you pulled out of my grip and told me to turn over. I faced the other way, stung, until I felt your arm close over my side and I understood that you were going to hold me instead.

Do you think we were really in love?
I said.

You rubbed your feet together for warmth.
It doesn't matter anymore,
you said.

 

We made cursory love. You put your hands on the clothed parts of me—gripping the waistband of the pants I didn't fully remove, smoothing palms over my crewneck. You pointed your face away as though you were withholding sight of it, gently pulling my fingers from your clit to replace them with your own.
You don't know,
I was saying, breathless,
how much I missed you.
I willed you to look at me, feeling like an intruder. Sex, for me, had always been an exercise in isolation, a pleasant but dissociative task. Afterward, I usually felt a sense of confirmation; I was alone in the world, even in this. Watching you come, in profile, I knew you were elsewhere, and I understood that we had made a parallel discovery: regardless of the partner, fucking and loneliness were two sides of one coin.

 

After, you asked me what you needed to know, and I obliged you. You sat up against the wall and extended your legs, your feet cool against my stomach.

The church, I told you, had been small. We were married on a warm day in April. One of my cousins arrived
in denim shorts and a tank top, and Greta fretted about it; it made her feel judged. The woman who rented us the restaurant for the reception kept pestering my mother, telling her more had arrived than were paid for. It was a dry wedding, since my in-laws were covering the bill. But I went with my father to a liquor store up the street, and we each drank a tall boy on the walk back, hiding them when cars passed. He told me he was sorry I was living in the suburbs, where we had moved a month before. He told me that marriage would be harder than I expected. I thanked him. I was close to finishing my credential, and I remember as I took a long pull from my beer he said,
You're going to be a good teacher.
I thanked him again. He said,
You'll be one of the good guys now.

You cut in, and asked me,
Is that why you wanted to be a teacher?

But I continued on. To my parents' credit, I told you, they kept quiet about my previous wedding. Somewhere along the way they had evidently sprouted a sense of decorum. That night, the gifts piled in Greta's parents' living room rattled me. It was overwhelming, and incredulous, being so loved.

Were you happy on that day?
you asked me.

I had felt, I told you, like if I just focused on the happiness
around
me, things would stay okay. If I just stayed in that moment, I would never think again about what I had lost. But I remember when that ease began to dissolve. Greta's mother came toward me at the reception, short and squat in her sequined sweater. She put her hand on my elbow and told me how thankful she was. Greta was elsewhere, changing out of her veil maybe, or chatting with her
giddy friends. Her mother looked up at me with Greta's same eyes, beaming, and told me how lucky she was to have such a kind man for a son-in-law. As she spoke I felt the joy leak from me. All I could hear was what I wasn't.

A flash of white light illuminated the air shaft beyond your window, and rain, from nowhere, pelted the brick building. A swollen, belching thunderclap startled me so badly I jumped, and it felt like the images around us scrambled. I shut my eyes, disoriented, and opened them again. And then the shapes of the room ordered themselves in the dim light, and the silent minutes ticked by. The rain vanished as suddenly as it had come. Both of us lay on our backs beneath the blanket, and I heard your breathing slow and deepen. That was when I spoke.

You're not him,
you said. Your eyes were still closed.

I don't know what to do next,
I said.

You linked our arms like we were about to step on a dance floor. Your voice was gentle.

Yes you do,
you said.

 

In the light of morning I awoke on my stomach, the blanket on the floor. I could hear the shower, so I got up and knocked on the bathroom door.
You can come in,
you said. Your shower curtain was clear. It was the first time I had ever seen you naked, in full light and all at once.

I watched you look away before you spoke.
So what time are you leaving?

I steadied myself against the sink.
I don't know,
I said.
I'm not sure yet.

I saw what was different about you, then. Your body had become leaner, its edges more sharply defined. You had hardened. You were grown. I sat on the closed toilet seat, watching you soap your hair with your arms above your head. The way you had your hands raised, I thought—of all things—about when you helped me move into my first apartment. On the ceiling of my bedroom were glow-inthe-dark plastic stars someone had left, and you stood on a chair to rip them down. Your arms were raised over your head like they were right then in the shower, as you pried the stars from the ceiling, bending your fingernails back once, then twice, cursing both times and sucking your fingertips.
Leave them if it hurts you so bad,
I said. You did. And after that I slept beneath an incomplete galaxy, staring from the mattress on my floor at the gaps you had left behind.

I took in your slick hair, the horizontal line of your mouth. Your face was pink from the water's heat.
It's so good to see you,
I said. In my head the words sounded stupid, oversimplified to absurdity. But as I spoke them they felt like the truest ones I could have chosen.

Your eyes were eerily blue against the white of the tiles. I approached the shower and we both leaned forward. We kissed through the clear vinyl, and then I handed you your towel.
Good to see you too,
you said. As you dried yourself I straightened my side of the bed—the same side that had been mine in my bed, and in your parents' bed, those years before. You were still in the bathroom as I dressed, gathered my things, and left.

 

I ran the six blocks to where I had parked, panting. But when I arrived at the spot where my car had been, it was
gone. I circled the block, convinced I had made a mistake.

Hey!
somebody shouted. An old man was sitting on a plastic lawn chair, perched on the dog-shit-riddled sidewalk.
You drive a little white hatchback?

What?
I said.

Everything stilled.
Fuck,
I said.

You gotta pay those on time,
he said.
They'll find you. They have a sensor they scan with. A little ray gun.

I shook my head. He was saying something about VINs, parking lots in Newark, retrieval fees.
It don't matter where you go,
he said.
They'll find you any goddamn where.

I scanned the street, bent over from running.

Call the police,
he said.
They'll tell you where to get it.

LaGuardia,
he said.

I don't know how to ride the buses here,
I said.
Tell me how to get to an airport on the subway.

He blinked, frowning.
Walk over to One Hundred Eighty-First,
he said softly.
Take the A train that says Far Rockaway, to JFK. You have to call the police, son.

I took off at a run, finding the station. I boarded the train and sat on the bench, watching my fellow passengers:
people in the same car didn't look at one another. But as we passed another train running alongside us in the tunnel, many in that train stared openly at me. The distance, the sheets of metal between us—it freed up reservations. We all fixed our eyes on each other, knowing we would never meet again.

I made it to the airport after an hour or so. I scanned the dozen screens, disoriented, out of my depth. I didn't have much money left, but I knew I could cover the one-way fare.