Something Right Behind Her (9 page)

I opened my book
and started to feel kind of normal, considering. I had managed to put the sad-looking
bumper almost completely out of my mind, until my cell phone rang. The
day-laborer-looking guy was Pedro the gardening guru of Bedford. He was,
apparently, the guy who my Mom met with the day before to go over the plans for
her new organic vegetable garden. My Mom is all about fitness and food and
eating local and all that, which was cool with me until this moment when I
found out Pedro had nothing better to do while waiting for his train then to
call my Mom. The first thing I thought was “Why doesn’t Pedro drive a truck,
like a regular gardener? Why the heck is he on the train?”

“He’s on his way
to visit family - he doesn’t take the truck into the city - you know, limiting
consumption and all of that, Andy! What is wrong with you? Why were you even
getting on in Bedford when Daddy specifically told you to go to Mt. K?” My Mom
sounded freaked out, not so much by the car, but by the fact that I didn’t
follow the instructions Dad gave me.

“I forgot.” I
heard my Mom sigh, like she was trying to control herself or employ some
strategy her therapist had given
her
to cope with
me
. It seemed
really fucked up then to me that here we were, mother and daughter, trying
really hard to communicate using
other peoples’ words
. It annoyed me
so much, I kind of stopped trying. “Why the hell does it matter where I get on?
I was late and this station is closer. I didn’t want to waste gas, you know,
consumption and all that.”

“Oh, goddamn it,
Andy.” Mom did not appreciate that one. “I’m calling Dad and you can talk about
it with him when you see him.” She hung up and I leaned back in the seat and
rested my eyes, figuring I’d just have to accept my stupid, waste-of-time fate.

I lay like that
with my head back for five or ten minutes. I wasn’t asleep, just thinking. I
didn’t care what I looked like and I kind of piled my hair on one shoulder to
keep it out of the way. All of sudden, I felt eyes on me, and I looked up.
George the Dirtbag, of all people, sat perched on the set of seats across my
aisle. He was grinning at me with a big stupid grin.

I was pretty
glad to see him for a few reasons. One was that George the Dirtbag always made
me feel pretty good about myself. He had a way of staring at you with those
enormous baby blue stoner eyes that made you feel like a fucking celebrity.
Second reason was George the Dirtbag was going nowhere faster than anyone else
I knew, so you couldn’t feel like a loser with him. He almost never went to
class, got stoned wherever, whenever. He also lived over in Milltown, not the
best side of town, though that was the kind of saddening thing about George.
His mother seemed sort of skanky and he didn’t have a Dad that anyone knew of.
The only thing George the Dirtbag really had going for him was that he was sort
of a prince among Dirtbags. All those pot-head freaky girls were in love with
him. There was another thing about George that made me feel good.

Sharon told me
in Spanish class one day a few weeks ago when we were supposed to be practicing
vocab that George the Dirtbag thought I was “muy bonita!” Ay Dios Mio!

“Hey George,” I
said, really friendly, and he smiled back, looking a little confused, as if
there might be some other, more suitable George sitting behind him.

“Hey Andy Berg,
looks like we’re traveling companions today,” he said. He sounded like maybe he
smoked a joint with his breakfast. “Where are you headed, all by yourself this
afternoon?”

I laughed. He
had a ridiculous way of talking that I had forgotten about, making everything
sound sort of formal. “I’m going to meet my Dad for lunch. It’s something we do
everyone once in a while,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much George would get
about my family situation. I was pretty sure he wasn’t headed to the city to go
to a high-priced midtown restaurant. “How about you? Where are you off to?” I
asked, trying to be nonchalant. Who knew where a guy like George might be
headed?

“Oh, you know.
My brother got this new place, needs a helping hand.” George trailed off.

“I didn’t know
you even had a brother,” I said, which was true.

“Half brother, actually.
Get this – he’s actually my Dad’s kid, but with my mother’s cousin, which
was how my Mom and my Dad met. None of us see my Dad much, though. Anyway, he’s
not my brother or my cousin, he’s something else. I guess there’s not a word
for it.”

I wanted to say
the word was fucked up. George was funny, though. He told the whole story in a
tone of amazement, as if the weird family tree were somebody else’s bizarre
reality.

George stayed in
his own row the whole time this conversation was taking place, but sat leaning
over, as though he were uncomfortable with actually crossing the physical
barrier of the train aisle – as if this would be too forward, too great a
leap across the social barriers that separated us at school.

“Well, I was
looking forward to meeting my Dad at this restaurant he likes to take me to,” I
said. “Only now I think I’ll get a huge lecture on how lame and irresponsible I
am.” I told George all about the car and how I really suck at driving. To my
surprise, I heard my voice get kind of wobbly when I got to the part about
hitting the tree, and how my Mom found out about it. He raised his eyebrows,
intrigued by my wrong-doing, and reached over and put a consoling hand on my
knee. “You know, Andy,” he spoke in a confidential whisper, “my half-brother is
a part-owner of the auto-body place on 117. I could set you up there - bang the
thing out.”

“I thought you
just said you were going to meet your brother in the city - why does he own a
business out there?” I was getting confused and I wasn’t sure if he meant free
of charge or what.

“Oh, yeah, he
owns things out here and he does some shit in the city,” George said, as if
this cleared everything up.

“OK, I’ll tell
my Dad. I’m sure that’ll make the whole thing go down a bit easier,” I said,
even though I had no intention of mentioning George’s half-brother to Dad. My
agreement to tell Dad about his offer seemed to please him, though, as if he
had solved my major life’s problem and now we could have some fun.

What fun meant
for George was, of course, smoking, and he impishly flashed me the baggy he had
stored in the front pocket of his washed-out jeans. As thankful as I was to
have George to keep me company, I knew I was not invested in the idea of
lighting up on a Metro North train on the way to see my Dad for lunch. But when
I looked alarmed, he immediately pocketed the bag and raised his hand up as if
to silence my fear.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Grand Central
station is a big place, and George was familiar with all its nooks and
crannies. As soon as we got off the train, George took me by the wrist and
pulled me to the end of the concourse – the opposite of the direction I
should have been headed in. We walked past all the shops and stalls and then
out one of the lesser-used exits, so we ended up on forty-first street instead
of out where most of the cabs wait. We walked a block and a half east to this
tiny enclave of Tudor buildings with a little park out front. It had gotten
even colder than it had been that morning and I was shivering. The sidewalk was
quiet, even though we were still in midtown. The sky was overcast, and it
looked, improbably enough, like snow.

George pulled me
off the sidewalk, onto a kind of drive that headed up to an apartment complex,
so we were a few yards away from all the other pedestrians. George produced a
perfectly rolled joint and handed it to me with a light. I didn’t stop to think
any of the prescribed thoughts, just took a nice long hit and handed it back to
him. We smoked like that in silence for a few minutes. The trees looked
uncommonly pretty. It was, in fact, beginning to flurry - large, wet, white
flakes landed on George’s eyelashes, stuck to his faded denim jacket. He
smelled like cigarettes and a sweet, licoricey smell. I wondered for a second
if it was some kind of cologne, or, actually, licorice. When he smoked, George
got a far away look in his eyes. Actually, he always had sort of a faraway
look, but he became, while we stood there smoking on a public street corner in
the middle of Manhattan, vacant-looking. His blue eyes were very pale and his
wispy brown hair fell over his eyes - he was continually sweeping his hair out
of the way with the hand that held the joint.

“You look really
pretty,” he said, catching me looking at him. “I like the way the snow lands on
your curls, and just sticks like that.” He reached over and shook a lock of my
hair as if to demonstrate its rare capability to accumulate snow. Then he
leaned down, without warning, and kissed me lightly on the lips. He had a
sparse, blondish mustache that I wouldn’t have really noticed, except that it
grazed my lip. How funny life is, I thought. How strange to be kissed by George
the Dirtbag in the middle of Manhattan. There was no meaning in what I was
doing. Yet that very randomness energized me. Things happened in life. The
thing with Doug had happened, and was now, indelibly, a part of my past. Death
could creep up out of nowhere, beginning in the right shoulder, in a moment of
weakness. Well, life could do the same. Kisses could arrive along with unseasonable
snow. After a moment or two of making out, I pulled myself away from him and
looked at my watch. “Jesus Christ, George, I’ve got to go meet my Dad!” He
smiled at me and shook his head.

“Thanks,” he
said. “That was
sweet.
” He put the emphasis on the word sweet, as if referring to a
guitar solo, or a skate trick. It took me a second to realize he meant the
kissing. “Yeah,” I said. “Not exactly on my list of things to do today.” It
wasn’t the most romantic comeback, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about kissing
him. I was glad it happened, but I wasn’t sure if that feeling of gladness had
the slightest thing to do with George.

I turned and
trotted up Park Avenue to meet Dad. I jogged past men in business suits and
women slipping along in their heels. I had on my black ankle boots and I kept
sliding every few steps on purpose just to keep my pace. By the time I got to
the restaurant, I was out of breath and my hair was wet with snow. I figured
that fresh cold air had pretty much done away with any lingering dope smell.

I checked my
coat and followed the hostess to the table where my Dad sat waiting for me. I
was wearing black jeans and a cool studded belt and a nice powder-blue sweater
with a few long silver chains. I was about twenty years younger than anyone
else in the room, and probably the only woman, or girl, really, in jeans.

My Dad looks
pretty slick in his business clothes. He always wears a nice suit with some
flashy tie. Today the tie was pink with little blue flowers on it. I sat across
from him and stared at the tie. Yup, I was still pretty high.

“Hey, sweetie,”
Dad said, and he stood up slightly in his chair and leaned across to kiss me
hello.

“Hey, Dad,” I
said, and then I sat and picked up the over-sized menu. It seemed like both of
us were equally nervous, unsure how to begin. Surely Dad was pissed about the
car thing, but didn’t want to ruin the whole bonding experience. I, on the
other hand, was trying to manage both my buzz and the concern I felt about the
lecture I was about to receive. Dad put his glasses on and began studying the
menu, and making all kinds of suggestions to me, as if I’d never eaten out at a
nice place before. He looked pretty serious, which was not a good sign. He has
this crease that stands out in his forehead when he’s upset about something, so
it’s not exactly subtle.

The restaurant
was really beautiful, and looking around the room the feeling of gladness I had
with George returned. I knew I should have been freaked out showing up there
stoned. I knew my Mom had called Dad about the thing with the car - that was
obvious. I knew everyone was all worried about me and angry with me, but still,
I felt happy. The more I thought about how miserable I should have been, how I
had so many reasons to feel sad, or guilty, or ashamed, the feeling of
happiness grew. If I felt like this now, for this moment, why shouldn’t the
feeling continue into the next moment, and then further, for the entire lunch?
Why couldn’t I feel this good forever, if I felt this good now, for no reason?

That’s what I
was thinking after I ordered the Dover sole and a Caesar salad and my Dad gave
a slight nod when the French waiter asked if the lady would like anything to
drink. I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio, which is what he ordered. It goes to
show, you can get away with underage drinking if the bill is high enough.

Then Dad took
off his glasses, and I could see his look of hurt, or was it puzzlement? He
seemed incredibly tired. Oh shit, I thought to myself.

“Andy,” he
began. “You know you’re not the first person to lose someone you care about.” I
started to say I hadn’t lost anyone. Eve was not dead yet, but I held my
tongue. What was the point of contradicting him? Anyway, it was true that Eve
was lost in a way. She existed in such a small space, a single room.

“I was in my
twenties when my parents died,” he began, not that I hadn’t heard this story
before, times a million. “That was the most difficult period of my life. I
wasn’t sure what anything meant anymore.” Of course, Dad always failed to
mention that this tragedy left him with an inheritance large enough to buy a
house, and to start his own law office, becoming his own boss at twenty-nine,
not that it was a great trade-off.