Justin Kramon (37 page)

“It’s not a huge deal or anything,” Earl went on. “I won a contest. A university press is putting the collection out. Pittsburgh, actually. They’re just going to print a couple thousand copies.”

“Still. That’s great.” She put her hand on Earl’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m proud of you, Earl. I knew you’d do it one day. I’m sorry it comes at such a sad time, but you should feel good about this. What’s the book called?”

“It’s called
Calling Across the Years,”
Earl said, flushing a little, the way he used to when he was younger. “I’m not crazy about the title. Especially now. It seems dramatic and silly to me. But I just wanted to capture the idea of moving across time. It’s a line from one of the stories.”

“I like the title a lot,” Finny said. “It’s pretty.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. But you remember our deal?”

Earl smiled. “Of course,” he said. “A personal letter. I’ll write it inside the front cover for you. As soon as the book comes out.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

And then Earl looked at Finny and said, “I have another piece of news. There just wasn’t a good time for me to say it.”

“What is it?” she said, watching the pavement stream beneath their headlights.

He turned back to the road. He opened his lips, then closed them, as if considering what to say. Then he told her, “I’m seeing someone, Finny. I mean, living with her.”

“Oh,” she heard herself say. She didn’t know why, but the news struck her with an almost physical force. For some reason, she’d assumed Earl was moping around his Paris apartment by himself. And then she realized: she’d been waiting for him to ask her out, to say they should give it another try.

“Well, congratulations again,” she said to Earl, though she knew her voice sounded odd, plastic.

“I didn’t say anything at the house because it just didn’t seem like the right time to talk about it. I know this is a bad way to end our visit, but I thought you’d want to know.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“I met her while I was teaching a writing workshop in France,” Earl continued. “She was a student.” He blushed again. “Her name’s Mavis. She’s American. Ten years younger than me, to tell you the truth. She was studying abroad. We just kind of hit it off. She’s living with me now. She would have come, but it would have been hard for us to afford the trip if we both took off work. Plus, I hadn’t really talked to Dad about her. She’s working as an assistant to a fairly well-known French scholar.” Earl looked uncomfortable. She knew he felt like he needed to explain.

But she didn’t want to hear any of that. She didn’t want to put either of them through the discomfort of it. So she said, “Actually, I met someone, too. I’m really glad for you, Earl. We should do a double date sometime.”

“Oh,” Earl said, his mouth dropping open a little. “Oh. That’s great.” She could tell he was surprised by her news, that it hadn’t been what he’d expected either. Yet he kept talking. “Mavis and I are hoping to move to a larger place in Paris, now that I’m done with the book. I have some fellowship money, and I’ve been working different jobs. Mavis can’t leave Paris, because of her work. It’s too good an opportunity for her. But she’s hoping to come to New York with me this fall, when my book comes out. Maybe we can all hang out together then.”

“Great,” Finny said.

“What’s your boyfriend’s name?” Earl asked.

“Brad. Brad Miller. It sounds plain, I know, but he’s a fascinating guy. He’s traveled all over Europe.” She felt that if she kept talking she could pave over the silence between them, the things they didn’t say, the words Mr. Henckel had left them with. Finny didn’t want to be alone in her head with these thoughts. If she kept talking, it wouldn’t quite be real.

“I’m happy for you,” Earl said. With an effort, he smiled; there was something hesitant and unconvincing in his manner. “Brad sounds really nice.”

Their conversation was awkward for the rest of the ride. They jumped between topics, such as the weather in Paris versus Boston, Finny’s teaching routine, the best ways to travel in the U.S. and in France, the relative merits of living in your own country versus moving abroad. They finally agreed that each experience was good in its own way, and felt comfortable leaving it at that.

Earl pulled up to the curb in the drop-off lane at BWI. Finny got out and took her bag from the back of the station wagon. She shut the door and was just planning to wave to Earl through the window, but he got out of the car and came over to her side. He put his arms around her, and they both hugged each other more tightly than they normally would have. She could tell there was so much left to say, but neither of them could figure out how to say it, to step across the gap between them. Finny felt herself begin to cry as Earl held her, and she swallowed back the hot ball in her throat. Neither of them seemed to want to let go. Only when several cars honked behind them did they loosen their grips on each other. As they came apart, Finny’s lips brushed Earl’s. She didn’t know if it was his initiative or hers, but she saw that he noticed it. He had a startled expression on his face. It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a kiss, though it felt like the beginning of one. Again, Earl seemed like he had something to say but was holding back.

She told Earl to let her know the dates he’d be in New York, and he promised he would. They exchanged email addresses. She said that she thought his dad was a great man, like a father to Finny, and she felt so sad about losing him. Earl thanked her, and said he would get that letter to her when the book came out in the fall. She said she couldn’t wait.

Then they said goodbye.

Chapter
35
Another First Date

It was easy to immerse herself in her life in Boston in the weeks after she’d left Baltimore. She caught up on her shopping and bill paying, her phone calls and emails. She got her hair cut, shorter than she’d ever had it before, almost boyish, though mussed in a hip way. Everyone at work said they liked it. And then there were the last weeks of school, the parent conferences and student reports. Through all this activity, Finny was successful at making the sad events of her time in Baltimore feel distant, like something she’d experienced a long time ago. She remembered a phrase from the first story Earl had shown her, when the narrator is describing the way he felt about his father, and he said that his dad was like an object in the rearview mirror. It was how so much of Finny’s life felt now. She was young, but she felt old, like she’d lived a lot.

The only connection to her past now were the periodic calls she made to check in on Poplan. They didn’t seem to have much news for each other, but somehow they were always able to fill up an hour on the phone. They could talk about anything—about something they saw on TV, or the books they were reading, or trips they would like to take. Finny felt so comfortable with Poplan that sometimes they could sit for a minute or two on the phone without saying anything, and it wasn’t awkward. Poplan seemed more subdued now that Mr. Henckel had passed away. Finny kept telling her she should come up to Boston, but they never got around to planning it.

She hadn’t heard from Judith since the weekend in the Hamptons, except for a brief email saying how sorry Judith was about Earl’s dad, and that she hoped Finny would call her when she felt up to it. But in truth, Finny didn’t feel up to it. She still couldn’t shake the image of Judith in her nightgown coming out of Sylvan’s room, the way Judith had looked at her in the hallway without saying anything, as if acknowledging both Finny’s presence and how meaningless it was at the same time. Finny felt awful for how screwed up Judith’s marriage was, but she also couldn’t help thinking that Judith had brought it on herself.

As for Sylvan, Finny didn’t get around to calling him either. As much as she would have hated to admit it, she’d lost respect for her brother after seeing him collapse under the weight of Judith’s sexual advances. And she couldn’t tell him that, how hurt she’d been by it. So she stayed away. She wrote emails that didn’t say much.

The only notable event in the early part of summer was a call from Julie Fried, the editor Finny had worked under at
Doll’s Apartment
magazine in New York. The ostensible purpose of the call was to say hi, see how Finny was doing, but after a minute of small talk Julie said, “Look, you know I can’t do all this how-are-the-grandkids stuff. I just want to tell you we have a job for you, Finny. An editorial assistant position is opening up after Thanksgiving. You’d be on a track to full editor. We only do it with people we really like. I know it’s not
The New Yorker
, but usually our people do pretty well. And by the way, the salary’s a little better than last time we talked.” Julie named a figure that wasn’t as horrifyingly low as the previous one.

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it,” Finny said. “It’s just a little late for me to be starting over.”

“Think about it, okay? Even though you’re a hundred years old.”

Finny laughed. “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

Only toward the end of July, a month after school had let out, two months after Mr. Henckel’s death, did Finny begin to feel a little bored. Earl had never written about when he was coming to New York, and the long hot month of August stretched ahead of her like a sun-parched field. It was around this time that, going through her address book one evening, she came upon the card Brad Miller had placed in her hand the night he’d kissed her in front of Judith’s vacation home.

Impulsively, she picked up the phone and dialed what she guessed was his cellphone, a 917 number. It rang five times, and Finny was on the point of hanging up when the line clicked on and she heard Brad say, “Brad Miller.”

Did she really want to go through with this?

“Hello?” Brad said.

She knew that if she hung up now she could never call again, since her number would be in Brad’s phone and the next time she called he would guess what had happened. But it was okay. She didn’t need this.

And yet, against every good instinct, she found herself saying, “Hi, Brad? This is Finny Short, Judith’s friend from—”

But he stopped her. “I’m so glad you called,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

It turned out Brad was coming to town that week for business. He and Finny made plans to meet on Friday night at a restaurant Brad wanted to try on Hampshire Street in Cambridge. He’d offered to pick Finny up at her apartment, but she assured him that the restaurant was a very short walk from her place and she liked getting the exercise.

Their reservation was for eight o’clock on Friday night, and Finny was running late. At seven-thirty she was still having trouble choosing her outfit. The blouse she’d originally planned to wear looked too low-cut when she put it on. So she switched to a vintage summer dress that showed off her legs, but then decided it was too formal for the occasion. So she went back to the blouse, which had a way of highlighting her shoulders and the plane of her chest. Since she didn’t have boobs, she found she did best to accentuate her long, thin body. But then her hair didn’t seem to do what she wanted it to. Her new style required her to comb it with her fingers, but it kept sticking up in back in a way that made it look like she’d just gotten out of bed. Maybe it was the humidity. In any case, she finally had to give up. She walked out the door at 7:56.

At the restaurant, Brad was already seated at their table. He was wearing a suit, without a tie. Like in Westhampton, Brad had the appearance of just having come from work. He looked a little pale and worn-out, and Finny figured it had been a long week for him. His forehead reflected the overhead lights as he studied the wine list, not seeing Finny as she approached the table. The top buttons of his shirt were undone once again, revealing a nest of chest hair. Finny couldn’t help feeling a pulse of excitement—or was it anxiety?—at the sight of him.

When she was next to the table, she said hello. He got up and kissed her, then looked her up and down in the approving way he had that night on Long Island, like she was a car he was planning to purchase.

“I love your hair,” he said as they were getting seated.

“Oh,” Finny said. “Thanks. Actually, it was giving me all kinds of problems tonight. I’m sorry I’m late.” She wondered if she’d given away too much by saying all this. Would he expect more if he knew she’d taken time to get ready for him?

But Brad simply smiled at Finny—he had a wide, pleasant smile that showed some teeth—and said, “If we were in New York, you’d be early. Don’t worry about it. I just figured I’d get our table. This place is so popular.”

Finny looked around at the restaurant. It was a cute place. The dining room, where they were sitting, was designed simply, with wood paneling and floors made of some kind of varnished stone. The tables were packed tightly together, but Brad had gotten a booth near the back of the room, which gave them a bit more privacy. A long window to Finny’s right offered a view of Hampshire Street, a quiet, mostly residential street. Only a few cars passed at this hour, and once in a while a couple or a small group on their way to a neighborhood bar. From the menu, it seemed the food was Middle Eastern, though the prices were much higher than what Finny would have expected for that type of food.

“Why don’t we make things easy?” Brad said. “We can get the tasting menu and a nice bottle of wine. Then we don’t have to make any decisions and we can enjoy each other’s company.”

“Or sit in agonizing silence,” Finny said.

“Or that.” Brad smiled.

In truth, she wouldn’t have minded looking over the menu, which seemed interesting to her—cinnamon-scented pork, scallops wrapped in phyllo dough—but she agreed it was nice not to have to make decisions. She glanced at the price of the tasting menu—eighty-five dollars—and said a silent prayer that Brad had a generous expense account.

When the waitress arrived, Brad ordered for them. He then deliberated over the wine, whether to start with a Viognier or a Grüner Veltliner, two names Finny had never heard and that sounded vaguely like the names of exotic dancers.