The Goodbye Summer (10 page)

“What?”

“Sympathetic characters and concrete detail.”

She thought of Christopher: four years of piano lessons and all he could play was “Für Elise” and “Chopsticks.” She handed Magill his brochure back. “How long do you think you’ll have to stay here?”

As soon as she asked, she was sorry. He straightened up from his friendly slouch and turned away.

“I know, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand—why can’t you work? Couldn’t you…if you just…” Sat still and didn’t move, closed one eye, told other people what to do, explained exactly what he wanted to those nice-looking people in the photograph…

“Do you think I’d be here if I could work? Something’s wrong with my
head.
I’m an engineer, a designer, I’m supposed to invent things—my
brain’s
scrambled, I can’t draw a line with a straight edge. I can’t
see
things, images on a computer look like nothing, it’s just meaningless lines—”

“Well,” she interjected, because that wasn’t true, she happened to know. “Unless it’s cheerleaders.”

She wanted him to laugh, but he started away, moving jerkily out into the bumpy, grassy yard. He got about ten yards, using his stick to take
furious whacks at dandelion heads as he went, before he staggered to a stop. He swayed, bracing his knees for balance, then gave up and sat down hard on the ground.

She walked out to him, careful not to hurry. When he saw her he fell over backward, holding his temples and squinting up at the sky, which she imagined was spinning. She stood over him. “Are you okay?”

“Go away. Take your grandmother and vacate my room.”

She sat down, folding her bare legs and blowing a dandelion seedpod off her knee. “I walked all the way over here from my house, aren’t you impressed? I am, except now I have to walk all the way back.”

“Take a cab.”

“No, I’m on a health kick.”

“You’re fine.”

She pondered whether or not that was a compliment. “Nana has a new art project. It’s on…well, it’s hard to say.”

“Oldness.”

“Oh, you heard.”

“She wants all my old cigarette butts.”

“I don’t understand why it always has to be
all.
Is it still art if you don’t pick and choose?” She plucked a clover shoot out of the ground and pulled the leaves off one at a time, letting them fall in her lap. She nibbled the stem. Magill was shading his eyes with one hand, looking up at her. “Too bad,” she said, wistful, “you can’t make a prosthetic device for your poor head.”

He smiled.

Christopher had nice lips, too. Fuller than Magill’s; the bottom one was downright pillowy. “I have a date tonight,” she said.

“Oh,
good
for you.”

“He’s a therapy animal expert.”

“I know.”

What a wonderful job, so sunny and happy, so perfect for Christopher. “I met him through Finney,” she explained, and told Magill about Christopher’s cramped little office and the mission of CAT. She told him about King, the wonder dog.

“I’m more of a cat person.” He folded both arms over his eyes.

“They have cats, too. They have everything, even horses, even chickens.” She told him about Estelle. “I’m thinking of taking the training. Not with Finney, I guess he’s hopeless, but I could borrow a dog. Christopher says I could even borrow King after I go through the program. I think it would be really worthwhile, something I could do in my spare time. Everything changes when you bring a dog into a room full of sick people, even if they’re just sick with
—especially
if they’re just sick with loneliness. They forget all about themselves. They love the dog, and it’s really love, not just
oh, how cute.
Sometimes it’s the first time they’ve communicated with anything in a long time. All of a sudden they’re back in the world. In the moment. And it lasts, it starts relationships with the other people, I mean it doesn’t just stop when the hour’s over and the dog leaves. It keeps going. A beneficial cycle.”

All she could see was the top of his forehead and his pressed-together lips; the rest of his face was hidden under his ropy forearms. Under his T-shirt, his spiky rib cage rose and fell with his breathing, dropping off to an alarmingly concave belly. If he were six feet lower, he’d be a skeleton in the ground.

She shook that thought away. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“First Nana, now you—I might as well go home.” She pulled a grass blade and tried to whistle on it between her thumbs. She leaned back on her hands and looked at a buzzard circling high up in the clouds, or maybe a hawk. A grasshopper jumped on her knee. She brushed it off and stood up.

“Okay, well, see you.”

“Have a nice time tonight with Timmy.”

“Christopher. Who’s Timmy? Oh.” Lassie’s boy. “Ha-ha, very funny.”

He smacked his lips, ostentatiously readying himself for sleep.

“Don’t lie there for long. Don’t go and pass out, you’ll get sunburned.”

No answer.

She made a face he couldn’t see because his eyes were closed, and set off on her long walk home.

This is what I missed in high school,
Caddie thought, jumping up when Christopher did to cheer somebody’s leaping catch of a fly ball to center field. Beer sloshed from her cup onto her thigh, and she just laughed. It was a warm, buggy, sweaty night with the smell of popcorn and dust in the air, heat lightning in the distance. The Beavers were beating the Trolls by fourteen runs, nobody was taking the game seriously, and everything was funny.

“I’ve never done this before!” she dared to tell Christopher, who put his arm around her back and leaned closer to hear. “I’ve never been to a softball game. Or a baseball game, or football!”

He had a way of looking amazed when she told him things like that, things he’d apparently never heard anyone say, and then looking politely thoughtful. She wished he would tell her what he was thinking, even if it was
Where did you come from, Mars?
But he just opened his eyes in amazement, then pursed his lips in thought, as if filing the information away for later.

“I was in the orchestra instead of the band,” she tried to explain, but he just grinned, ran his fingers into her hair at the back, gave her head an affectionate shake, and went back to watching the game.

Oh, well, he wouldn’t understand anyway. In high school he’d have been one of the players on the field, or else he’d have been sitting on one of these hard, splintery bleachers surrounded by his attractive, confident friends,
speaking the foreign language Caddie had never mastered, performing the social rituals she couldn’t duplicate. Except for music, adolescence for her had been one long personal embarrassment. She’d never held that against the favored ones like Christopher, though, or even particularly envied them. It would’ve been like envying gods: pointless.

The Beavers hit six more runs in the seventh inning and the game ended, or collapsed. Christopher steered Caddie out on the field and introduced her to his friends, Rick and Toby, Wesley, this was Keith, here was Glen—she lost track of names when their wives and girlfriends joined them. They were all on their way to a bar on the west side, Hennessey’s, they went there after every game, were Christopher and Caddie going to join them? “Want to?” Christopher asked her, but that was only a formality, and before she knew it she was sitting on a sticky bench in the corner of a loud, crowded tavern, trying to shout a pizza order over an endless Allman Brothers song on the jukebox.

Toby was the chef at a restaurant in town, Rick was Christopher’s landlord, Glen’s wife, Phyllis, was a team leader and dog trainer at CAT, Keith—Caddie couldn’t hear what Keith said when he explained himself, but she nodded and smiled and pretended she did. She’d never really liked loud, noisy bars, having to strain to hear and shout to be heard. It came to her now that the appeal wasn’t the ambiance anyway, it was creating your own little island of intimacy in the middle of chaos. Pressing her arm against Christopher’s arm, enjoying the cup of his hand on her thigh, feeling his warm, beery breath on her cheek—it was like watching a violent summer storm from the safety of a screened-in porch, cozy and exciting at the same time. This is how real people live, she thought, this is what they do all the time. Everything that must be prosaic to them, the pretty neon liquor signs glowing over the bar, the wafting palls of blue cigarette smoke, the long line of variously shaped rear ends on the bar stools, seemed exotic to her tonight. This was good clean American fun, and she was like a new immigrant from some third-world country, dazzled and overwhelmed and hoping to fit in.

When she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, Phyllis went with
her. They stood beside each other at the mirror, repairing their faces. Phyllis said, “I love that lipstick shade, Caddie.”

“Thanks.”

“Is your hair naturally straight? God, I’ve always wanted straight hair. Mine curls up like a party ribbon in this humidity.”

Phyllis was lovely, copper-haired, porcelain-skinned, dainty as an elf. When she left, Caddie stared at her reflection, trying to see herself as a stranger would, somebody as petite and cute as Phyllis, for example. Her hair had no style, just hung long and lank from a side part; she was constantly throwing her head back to get it out of her left eye. Did having no hairstyle make her look like a hippie, a sort of earth mother? Could that be her image to Phyllis and the others? To Christopher? She’d dithered for an hour over what to wear tonight and finally chosen, for reasons that seemed completely inexplicable now, a long black tunic of Nana’s over a short plaid skirt of her own, and sandals. What did this look mean? What
was
she in this outfit? She’d walked out of the house feeling leggy and fun, but under the fluorescent ladies’ room light and in the metaphorical shadow of small, stylish Phyllis, all she could see were flaws. Including the fact that the hem and pushed-up sleeves of her black tunic were covered with dog hair.

But Christopher smiled at her from all the way across the room. “Hey, you.” He stood up to let her squeeze back into her place on the bench, and for the two or three seconds he held her tight against him, her back against his front, all she felt was chosen.

They held hands under the table. He caressed her bare thigh in the most thrilling, matter-of-fact way, as if they were already intimate. “Would you like to dance?” he said in her ear. There was an area about six feet square near the jukebox where one other couple was dancing, or, rather, swaying, not even moving their feet. The current song was a theatrical ballad by a singer Caddie disliked—she thought Christopher was joking or being ironic, that dancing to it was his way to make fun of this overorchestrated love song. But once in the circle of his arms, pressed against him and easily following the fluid slide of his long legs wherever he moved her, she could tell he meant it. Felt it, was
into
the sentimental lyrics and the woozy tune—and from that
moment on she loved the song. How wrong she’d been about it. It was simple and real, it told the truth, and she’d been not only snobbish but cynical not to see that before.

Christopher’s whiskers prickled her cheek. He turned his head, and they danced with his lips in the hollow under her ear, she with her eyes closed, because when she opened them the room spun. The song ended, and in the interval of quiet before the next one, they kissed.
People are watching us,
she thought hazily, not caring. Christopher rested his forehead on hers and smiled into her eyes. “Caddie Winger,” he said, like a revelation, and she thought,
This is real. Wake up, Caddie, it’s happening to you.

When he told them they were leaving, his friends looked knowing and not surprised. And
glad,
Caddie imagined, affection for them welling up in her. She had their approval, and also, right now, their interested speculation in her love life, her sex life. She didn’t blame them. She felt fascinating and unexplored, full of potential. A little like an exhibitionist. What she and Christopher were doing was public foreplay, and she liked it.

She’d met him at the ball field, so they had two cars. “Follow me home?” he said in the parking lot, with another of his devastating smiles. There had never been much mystery about how this evening would end, but just the same it was lovely to finally have everything confirmed and out in the open. Now she had only to obsess about
how
it would be, not
if.

But first they had to walk King. He met them at the front door of Christopher’s first-floor apartment with no barking, but if he remembered Caddie from before, he gave no sign, had eyes only for his master. “Hey, big guy. You miss me? Hi, fella,” Christopher greeted him, ruffling his ears and thumping him on the back. They strolled behind King along the quiet sidewalks of Christopher’s neighborhood, holding hands, pausing each time the dog did his dignified business. King was so well behaved, he didn’t even need a leash. Would Christopher think she was a bad owner for not worrying about Finney’s walk? He didn’t say anything about it, so she didn’t either.

His apartment wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d imagined him living in a messy, all-male sort of place furnished with thrift-shop furniture, everything a little shabby and run-down because he had more important
things on his mind than housekeeping. She’d actually fantasized about cleaning the place for him, adding subtly warm, womanly touches he wouldn’t notice right away, but when he did they’d make him smile.

Instead, everything was spare and tidy as a monk’s cell, much, much neater than her house, and the style he’d chosen was
modern. Never
would she have guessed that. He liked metal and glass furniture, everything angular and either black and white or gray, and rush mats for rugs on the gleaming bare wood floors. Abstract art on the walls! He took her into the kitchen to open a bottle of wine, and he had a little machine for it, a stainless steel stand; he put the bottle on it and pushed down on a lever to uncork it. He hung his wineglasses upside down from a wooden rack under one of the cabinets. He had a bread machine. He had a set of those heavy gray pots and pans she had given up looking at in kitchen catalogs because she would never be able to afford them.

“Christopher, this place is amazing! Did you do it all yourself?”

He chuckled as he poured wine into two huge, bulblike glasses. “Do you like it?”

“It’s just—I never thought—yes, I like it, it’s just not what I expected! It’s so…” Grown-up or something. But she was readjusting fast, deciding it suited him perfectly, mentally slapping herself for assuming he’d live in some grungy, grad student’s garret kind of place. He had too much self…self-regard, no, self-esteem…the word wouldn’t come to her.

He gave her a glass, and they toasted. “To us,” he said, looking into her eyes. She was too shy to say it back, or too superstitious, but she clinked glasses with hope and enthusiasm.

In the living room, she was about to sit down on the white leather couch when he took her wineglass from her and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. She’d never cared for that gesture in the movies—what if the woman
wanted
her drink, she’d think—but when Christopher did it, it made her heart pound in anticipation. He put his arms around her. He was the best kisser she had ever known, he brought out skills of her own she’d never even suspected. He ran his hands up and down her sides and pressed his leg between hers, backing her up against the couch. He got his hand
under her short skirt and pulled her up close against him. She started to lose her breath. Would they—would they make love right here, like this? She’d never done it standing up. Her knees started to quake. Christopher broke away and took her by the hand.

Oh, the bedroom—that was better anyway, she wasn’t disappointed—

“Let’s take a shower.” He flicked on the bright fluorescent light and pulled her into the bathroom.

“Okay.” She stood motionless, too startled to do anything but watch him pull the clear plastic curtain back and turn on the water, fiddle with the temperature until he had it to his liking, take down fresh towels and washcloths from a shelf over the toilet, open a new bar of soap. When he pulled his shirt over his head, she blushed and slipped her sandals off and started to unbutton her blouse.

Was this romantic? She couldn’t tell. Maybe this wasn’t foreplay at all, just practicality. Like two guys in a locker room. They were sweaty from the game and smoky from the bar, and that must matter to Christopher. Of course, he’d want them to be clean and fresh for their first time together—who wouldn’t? This was natural, not odd, she felt sure, although it still seemed wrong to strip in front of him without touching. Something as scary as nakedness ought to be accomplished, at least the first time, with as much affection and reassurance as you could manage, shouldn’t it? Maybe not, though, if you had a perfect body. And Christopher did.

It was hard to look at him. Impossible not to—he took up the whole room, or that was how it seemed, with his long thigh muscles and his chest and his hard abdomen and his body hair and his testicles. His feet. “Wow,” Caddie said sincerely, proud of herself for not giggling.

He noticed she’d gotten stuck, or else he read her mind and knew she wanted help, support—he picked up her hand and kissed it very sweetly. He kissed the top of her shoulder, then reached around and unhooked her bra. She stole a glance at his face. He didn’t say “Wow,” but he did flare his nostrils a little; that was a good sign. He stuck his finger in the waist of her
skirt and tugged gently. “Hurry,” he said, gave her a peck on the lips, and stepped into the shower.

Okay. She was starting to get his romantic rhythm. It was every man for himself, no mollycoddling. She got out of the rest of her clothes, folded them in a neat pile opposite Christopher’s neat pile on the sink counter, and got into the shower with him.

Where they just washed themselves, separately, taking turns under the spray. They didn’t even talk much. He was all business. He did look at her with what she hoped was friendliness and admiration while he lathered his hair with shampoo, but by then she was so unsure, all she could think about was whether she ought to wash
her
hair.

But then, thank God, he finished with his hair, wringing it out till it squeaked, and he kissed her. As soon as he did, everything was fine. She forgot what she’d been worried about. Forgot everything, in fact, except that it was a miracle she was here, naked in the shower with the most exciting man she’d ever met. “This is so nice,” she murmured against his mouth, stroking his slippery skin, curving her hands over the muscular bulge of his buttocks.

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Let’s get out.”

Maybe he just liked keeping her off balance. As soon as she got used to one thing, he started doing another. She watched him blow-dry his hair while she dried herself off with one of his thick, soft towels and then wrapped it around herself. What now? Would they brush their teeth? He pulled up the toilet seat, and she left the room.

King, who had been lying in the hall in front of the closed door, got up and followed her to the bedroom. She patted his noble head, but she had the sensation he was monitoring her movements more than keeping her company. “Hi, big dog,” she said in a cozy voice, trying to win him over. “This is a great room, isn’t it?” She liked it better than the living room; the textures were softer, wood and cloth instead of chrome and leather. She heard water running and located a miniature fountain on the windowsill, one of those electric stone-and-copper deals she’d seen in Nana’s yoga catalogs. Why, it was charming, what a pleasant, restful sound. Zenlike.