Higher Education (28 page)

“Michael. Yoo hoo.”

He turns. “Y'all just yoo-hoo me?” Hands in pockets, he gazes at me through the doorway.

“Yes. Hi.”

“I'm goin' to dinner. Y'all wanna come?”

“We'd love to.” Ned gives another spurt of laughter, jabbing me again.

“Ow. He means me.”

“Oh, darn.” Peter's fingers creep in through the rip in my sweatshirt to tickle my armpit.

“Stop it. Michael—” I realize I'm still grinning and foggily I try to stop it, but I'm afraid my face will crack if I do. “Yoo hoo.”

Slowly he comes toward me, long-legged in jeans and boots. “What's doin', gal?”

“Michael—”

“Ned Billings. As in Montana.” Ned sticks out his hand. “And this good-looking guy over here is Peter Ainsley.”

Peter waits for Ned to relinquish Michael's hand before sticking out his own. “Call me Pete.”

“Howdy-do.” Michael puts his hand back into his pocket. “Some shindig y'all got goin' here. Somebody's birthday?”

“No, it's—”

“First Boston, Mike.”

“That's right, Mike. We're looking for a few good people.”

“We're aiming for the top.”

“In fact, we've already offered Marlene here a summer internship.”

“Marlene?” Michael's eyebrows go up.

“She'll be working in arbitrage, Mike.”

“Five hundred clams a week.”

“Starts first week of June.”

“Subsidized housing.”

“Company pays for lunches and cab fare.”

“Possibility of staying on full-time.”

“Twenty-eight thousand a year to start.”

“Plus a bonus in January.”

“Profit sharing.”

“Free checking and automatic deposit.”

“Discount membership at the New York Health and Racquet Club.”

“Neat, huh?” I say weakly.

“If y'all say so.”

Ned puts his arm around me again. “Yep, we think Marlene will be an important member of the First Boston team.”

“Very important.” Peter slaps me jovially on the back.

“Ow. Michael.” The Gold Room has begun to slowly sway back and forth. “I think I forgot to feed Edgar.”

“Edgar?” Ned asks, breathing gin and oranges into my face. “Who's Edgar?”

“My asparagus fern.” I struggle to straighten up under the dead weight of his arm. “If I don't water him on time, he starts dropping his needles.”

“Dropping his what?”

“Needles. Hypodermics.” I feel an abrupt urge to laugh. “You've got to be careful not to step on 'em, you know. They go right through your shoes.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” His big genial face looks perplexed.

“Didn't I tell you that I'm pre-med?” A tiny risible bubble is expanding inside my chest. “You know. Cutting open frogs and dead people, that kind of stuff.”

“Neat!” Peter exclaims. “Frogs, really?”

“Edgar, Edgar.” Finally I succeed in freeing myself. The floor feels rubbery under my feet. “Michael?”

“Gal?”

“We'd better hurry, don't you think?”

“Sure.”

I step forward and take hold of his arm. “Bye guys.” I try to focus on their faces. “Nice meeting you.”

“Bye, Marlene.”

“See you in June.”

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Ned winks at me.

“Don't forget your briefcase.” They both laugh.

“Your dinner,” I say, face-down on Michael's bed, feeling it tilt languorously from side to side. “Yoo hoo.”

He sits next to me, leaning against the wall. “I'm right here. You don't need to yell.”

“I'm sorry. Your dinner. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry 'bout it.”

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you take my shoes off?”

“Yes'm. Why?”

“I was just wondering.” The bubble in my chest has tightened into a dense little ball that's making it hard for me to breathe. And my left arm is tingling painfully. “Michael.”

“What?”

“I think I'm having a heart attack.”

“What makes you think that?”

“My left arm hurts. They say that's the first sign.”

“Maybe that's 'cause you're lyin' on top of it.”

“Oh.” He helps me pull my arm from underneath me. “I guess maybe it just fell asleep, huh?”

“Guess so.”

The bed lists precariously, and I give a little moan.

“Kitten?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

“Can't complain,” I say into the pillow.

“Good girl.”

“Michael?”

“Yes'm?”

“I only had three drinks.”

“They sure do go a long way, don't they?”

“Empty stomach.”

“That helps too.” He laughs softly. “How's your arm?”

“Much better.”

“Good.”

“Michael?”

“Gal?”

“I think I'd like to sit up now.”

“Okay.”

I twist over on my side and he helps me slide up against the pillows. Everything reels for a moment and then settles into a gentle oscillation.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“My chest still hurts.”

“Your chest hurts?”

“Yes. Here.” I take his hand and place it on my breastbone.

“How come your chest hurts?” he says quietly. His hand rests warm and motionless right over Minnie Mouse's face.

“Heart attack?”

“Are you okay? Tell me the truth.” I feel his breath against my face, and then I smell peppermint and Paco Rabonne.

“I'm fine.”

“Then how come your chest hurts?”

“Michael.” I curl my hand around his neck and tilt toward him. For the merest second we are kissing and then he leans away and takes his hand off Minnie Mouse.

“Honey.”

I am very still. The tightness inside me seems to have frozen into a hard cold ball.

“Honey. Look at me.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

With an effort I raise my eyes. “What.”

“It's not that—” He runs a hand through his hair. “It's not that—I mean, it's not that I—”

“Don't you think it would be nice?” I say in a small voice.

“Very nice.”

“Then why don't you want to?”

“I believe we've had this talk before.” His smile is half-wry, half-sad. “I've noticed you have a tendency to not be friends with folks afterwards.”

“It wouldn't be that way with you.”

He touches my cheek for a moment. “I don't think I wanna take that chance.”

“Big of you.”

“Honey—”

“Don't honey
me
, buster.” I'm wheezing as I speak. “When did you become the king of discipline?”

His smile twists. “Now you're makin' it tougher than it already is.”

“Tougher for who?” I lean over the side of the bed and start fumbling for my shoes. “Where the fuck
are
they, goddam it?”

“What're you doin'?”

“Looking for my goddam shoes. Do you goddam mind?” I locate one sneaker and shove my foot into it.

“Miranda.” He touches my shoulder, and I shake him off. I find the other shoe and jam it on. Without bothering with the laces, I take as deep a breath as I can and stand up.

“Well, thanks for everything.”

He stands up too. “Look, kitten—”

“I've got a lot of work to do.” I'm swaying only slightly on my feet. “If you'll just excuse me.”

“Why don't you just stay till you're feelin' better?”

“I feel fabulous,” I hiss.

“Let me walk you to your room.”

I avoid his eyes. “I'm fine, thanks.” I walk into the living room and toward the front door, carefully planting my feet as I go. At the threshold I turn my head and look just past his right ear. “Have a nice day.” Then I turn and start down the stairs, one hand gripping the rail, the other trailing against the wall for balance.

“Be careful,” he says, in a voice so sad that it's all I can do not to turn around again. But I force myself to keep my gaze fastened on the steps, as one by one I painstakingly descend.

Shit. Shit. Shit
. I'm at the house phone outside of B-entry, waiting for my eyes to refocus. I've already dialed two wrong numbers, and now I'm standing here blinking at the receiver like I've never seen one before.
Shit
.

“Well, hi.”

“Huh?” I jerk around, clutching the phone to my ear. It's Clark, the A-entry junior, standing there holding a Heineken in each hand. My heart bobbles uncomfortably. “Waiting to use the phone?”

“No, I was just watching you.”

“Why, for god's sake?”

“You were standing so still, I thought maybe you were asleep.”

“Asleep on my feet?”

“Horses do it.”

“Birds do it, bees do it.” I glare at him.

“Really?”

“No, I was just practicing.” I take my hand off my chest. “I got a job in a wax museum.”

“Really?” He blows into one of his Heineken bottles, making a tuneless whistling noise. “I heard First Boston made you an offer.”

“My, doesn't good news travel fast.” I suppress a belch. “But the pay sucks.”

“That's funny. I heard they offered you thirty-five thousand to start.”

“Forty.”

“Wow, neat.”

“Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a terribly important phone call to make.”

He doesn't move. “Want to come to a party?”

“No thanks.”

“You should check it out. It's a great party.”

“I've had my quota for the day.”

“Okay.” He takes a swallow from the other bottle. “See you around.”

“Yep.” I turn back to the phone.

“You look great tonight, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

When I hear the B-entry door shut, I depress the hook and then I dial, listening intently to the rings. One, two, three, four—

“Yeah?”

“Hi, Jackson. It's Miranda.”

There is a tiny pause. “I know. How are you?”

“Are you busy? I'd like to see you.”

Another little pause. “No, I'm not busy. You want to come over?”

“I'm outside B-entry.”

“I won't bother to clean up then.”

“Want a drink?”

“What have you got?”

“Vodka straight up.”

“Okay.”

I sit in a corner of the sofa and watch him pour two drinks into heavy-bottomed rocks glasses. He's got the Rolling Stones on the stereo, and holding both glasses in one hand he turns down the volume with the other.

“Stoli okay?”

“Sure. Got any lime?”

“No.” He sits in a low-backed leather director's chair across from me.

“Lousy bar you run here.”

He shrugs and picks up a pack of Camels from the coffee table. Tapping out a cigarette, he offers it to me. “You smoking or nonsmoking these days?”

“Non. Why?” I take two, three, four small quick sips at my drink, trying not to make a face at the taste.

“It's good, isn't it?” Jackson laughs as he lights his cigarette.

“No.” I keep sipping.

He exhales and crosses his legs, eyeing me through the pale gauzy smoke. “You look pretty.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

“Flattery.”

“No, no. I always thought you were prettier than me.”

“Are you thirsty? You want a glass of water?”

“No. Why?”

He's smiling as he flicks ashes into a blue ceramic ashtray that is balanced on the arm of his chair. “Lousy bar, but we do have water.”

“I'm fine.”

“Good.”

I sit watching him smoke, remembering the first time I'd been here. It was late: the lights were off, and Gerard was lying on the couch watching “The Honeymooners” and smoking pot. He made room for us on the sofa and we watched TV for a while, laughing at all the wrong places. When “Get Smart” came on, Jackson stood up and turned off the TV while I covered the quietly snoring Gerard with an afghan; and then he'd taken my hand and we'd gone into his room.

“Wild Horses” winds to a close, and Jackson coughs. “Depressing song, no?”

“You think so?” I smile, feeling the warmth, heavy and soporific, spreading down my shoulders and through my arms.

“I didn't know this was going to be a formal occasion.”

“Huh?”

“Should I have put on a jacket?”

“What?”

“Your tie, sweetie.”

“Oh.” I undo the knot and slip it off my neck. “It's not my tie.”

“Ah.”

“It's sort of ugly, isn't it?” I toss Ned's tie on the coffee table. It slithers off the corner and onto the floor. “Whoops.”

There's another pause, and then he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, sweetie,” he says briskly. “What can I do for you?”

“Do for me?” Again I feel that strange discomfiting urge to laugh. “Well, actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “I thought we could talk about the weather.”

“You came over so we could talk about the weather.”

“That's right.” I'm noticing the chill tightness in my lungs again, dissipating the lulling warmth of the vodka. “It's been fabulous, hasn't it? Spring is finally here, don't you think?”

“So it seems.”

“Sunny and mild, no? Balmy almost.”

He picks up his drink. “Look, sweetie, why don't you just tell me why you're here?”

“I was just in the neighborhood.” I pick up my glass too.

“And you thought you'd drop by.”

“Right.”

“A friendly thing to do.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs. “I think I'm getting bored.”