The Three-Day Affair (20 page)

Yes, I thought. She was a true triple threat. “You robbed me, too, you asshole. And Evan.”

“Oh, come on. Evan made partner. He’s probably pulling in a million a year. I’d say that dwarfs his contribution to the cause.”

“And what about me?” I asked.

“Now
that
I felt bad about from the beginning, honest to God. Hell, I almost called the whole thing off the week before. But you know all about that.”

The late-night phone call.

I shook my head. “And I talked you into coming.”

“Oh, don’t beat yourself up over it. I probably would’ve come regardless of what you said—because there’s something you don’t know about yourself that I know.”

I stared coldly at him.

“Well, don’t you want to know what it is?” he asked.

I didn’t want to take the bait. I really didn’t. But I’d flown all the way to California for this. “Why don’t you enlighten me.”

He actually grinned. “You’re a winner.”

“Fuck you.”

“You are. You’re ambitious, same as the rest of us. Even though you won’t admit it to yourself. Hell, if I know you, I’ll bet you never even lost a beat. I’ll bet you’re doing better now than ever before.”

I looked away, because I did know this about myself. I hadn’t known it before the kidnapping. But I knew it now. I was one of us. I was my own nightmare, a monster hiding in the woods,
waiting
for me.

“I hope you aren’t planning to tell anyone about this,” he said. “The publicity would kill Evan’s career. He’d lose his license. And it wouldn’t be good for you, either. Or Cynthia.”

And there was a dead man in the ground. There was nothing to say except for what couldn’t get said.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, and his mouth curved into a tentative smile. “And don’t pretend you aren’t a little
impressed
. Admit it. You’d have done it, too, if you were me.”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “There are things I wouldn’t do.” But my words rang hollow, even to me. “I’ve got to go.”

“Do you want your money back?” he asked. “Is that it? Because I’d be happy to pay you back. I could write you a check.”

“Good-bye, Jeffrey,” I said.

I was about to stand up when he said the most peculiar thing. “You know, we can still be friends. I hope you know that. I mean, we’ve been through some crazy shit together, and now we have kids the same age.” He leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, man, why don’t you come over to the house tonight for dinner, and I’ll write you that check.”

All around us, people traded stories of their lives in the
pungent
meeting place of a new millennium. An espresso machine whirred like an alarm clock telling me it was time to rise and shine. Get a move on.

I stood up, grabbed my coffee, and left him sitting there. From my rental car, I confirmed my next appointment with Bay Area Records. They were interested in using our studio for one of their Pennsylvania bands. “Yes,” I said, unfolding my directions. “I’ll see you soon.” I hung up my cell and lit a cigarette. And before pulling away from the curb, I looked in my rearview mirror and happened to catch a glimpse of myself. I saw a thirty-three-
year-old
man with sleep-deprived eyes tinged with horror, but hope, too—hope for his wife, for his child, and, above all, for the day when the radioactive rock on his bedside table might cease to glow.

I took a long swallow of coffee and secured the cup in the car’s cup holder. As I pulled into traffic and slowly coasted down the steep San Francisco street, I began to rehearse my presentation out loud, so that once the meeting started I would say everything right. I would be perfect.

A long time ago, jeffrey told me that were he to write Sara into a story, he’d never demean her.

What would he have written? How would he have begun?

How would I?

Maybe I’d begin with the tiny mole, the dark speck so easy to miss in the tan sky of her inner thigh. Or maybe I’d describe the curve of her hip.

Or the face she made when the take-out Szechuan shrimp was too spicy, or the Riesling too sweet.

I could describe the sight of Sara wet from the shower, beads of water clinging to her body, as she stood brushing her blonde hair, which darkened to luminous gold when wet.

I could describe how, when she made love, she became deadly serious and she gritted her teeth and locked her eyes on yours. Or the downy hairs on her smooth face that could only be seen from inches away under a pink late-afternoon light.

I could describe the sound coming from deep in her throat, the low moan that she herself had failed to present on the page in all its textured sensuality.

These things I could describe easily.

Romantic drivel? Maybe. So sue this second-rate sound engineer.

I could describe how Sara took your hand before falling asleep and kissed it lightly, or how in the morning she’d lie in bed only so long before becoming impatient and poking your ribs until you awoke.

I could describe the abrupt sound, almost like a delighted laugh, when she came, and the sound of her catching her breath as you caught yours, and then how, just when you thought it was over, she’d snuggle close, bite your shoulder, and whisper:
Do it again.

Had I known how often I’d find myself carrying my drums in and out of the trunks of cars, up and down staircases, down city streets, on and off stages, into and out of basements and attics, across restaurants and bars, through doorways and around drunken dancing revelers … had I known all of this when I was twelve years old and choosing an instrument, I might have chosen something smaller. Anything, really. Sometimes I’d even say it to myself—
The harmonica, Will. A nice, little stick-it-in-your-pocket
instrument
—hauling gear to my car after a show when everybody else had already packed up and gone home.

One Wednesday afternoon in the April of my senior year of college, I was carrying my drums from my dormitory room, down a flight of stairs, and into my car. Ordinarily this took me five trips. I had just finished the third trip when I saw Sara coming back to the dormitory. Last week had been cold, but today was warm and breezy, and Sara was a snapshot of spring: short-sleeved pink shirt and blue jeans, hair blowing behind her as she walked along the flagstone path, knapsack slung over one shoulder.

When she got close, I noticed that she’d been crying. I’d seen Jeffrey cry twice before, the first time after accidentally driving
over a cat, and recently—though he denied it afterward—during the closing minutes of the film
Sleepless in Seattle
. But never Sara.

“Do you need any help with that?” she asked.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

For a moment she looked surprised, as if unaware that her puffy red eyes had given her away. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She looked away. “How much do you have left?”

“I think we can get the rest in one trip.” I wasn’t going to pass up an offer that came along so rarely.

My gig that evening was in New York. All year I’d been going there fairly often to see bands and meet musicians. Back in the fall, I’d seen Fred McPhee play a couple of times and introduced myself after a show. When I ran into him again more recently, he’d told me that he needed a drummer to substitute with his band, High Noon, over the summer. Their regular drummer had accepted a two-month engagement to tour with another band.

So tonight’s gig was really an audition. They played every Wednesday night at Donny’s Den, in the West Village. If I did well, the summer gigs were mine. I could imagine no better way to transition from college student to New York musician than having a summer’s worth of performances lined up.

Sara and I went up to my room and came downstairs again with the last of my equipment.

“So tonight’s the big night,” she said.

“Yep.” I shoved the last of my gear into the backseat and shut the door. “But seriously, what’s wrong?”

I wondered if she’d had an argument with Jeffrey before he left for the airport. He’d been on edge all week. The other morning, when I went by his room for some book I’d lent him, he opened the door in his interview suit. He was trying it on, making sure it fit. He handed me my book and said, “I guess I won’t be needing
these
any longer. You know—books?”

“This is only a temporary job,” I reminded him. “One year—that’s all it is.”

“Assuming I’m lucky enough to get it.”

He made several sad attempts to put on the tie. Too long, too short, too long again. He muttered profanities each time. Finally, he crumpled up the tie, threw it in a corner of the room, and asked if I’d join him for a tequila shot or three.

It was a time of transparent emotions for all of us. Except for Evan, who was headed to law school at the University of Virginia in the fall, none of us knew what we’d be doing after graduation. And while we knew that we’d garner no sympathy from people facing real hardship, such knowledge didn’t lessen our anxieties.

Now it looked as if Sara could use a tequila shot. She leaned against the car and crossed her arms. “I just met with Tanya
Mahoney
in her office. She offered to help me find a job in
publishing
. Editorial assistant, or some job like that.”

The chance to study with Tanya Mahoney was one of the
reasons
why Sara had come to Princeton. Now her teacher, a
renowned
author and Pulitzer Prize winner, was offering to help her find work. I couldn’t see why this was anything but incredibly good news.

A Frisbee whumped into the side of my car. On warm days, campus became a battlefield for mad disk hurlers. I’d spent all spring ducking and dodging.

I picked up the Frisbee and threw it to the guy running toward me from the quad, who waved an apology.

Once he’d run off again, I asked Sara, “What am I missing?”

“I don’t want to be an editor. I want to be a writer.”

“Ah.” I didn’t know the ins and outs of publishing. “She must like your writing, though, if she’s willing to help you out.”

“As a matter of fact, she doesn’t. As a matter of fact, she thinks my writing is, quote,
young
. She said that to me today. And do you
know what else she said? She said, ‘While you show promise, you are not yet ready for publication.’”

As she recalled her meeting, fresh tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away with her fingers.

Not being ready—that was my own biggest fear. I imagined Fred McPhee shaking my hand later that night, after our set, and saying,
Thanks, Will. But don’t call us, we’ll call you
. These were New York musicians, professionals, and I worried whether I’d be able to play at their level. All week I’d been having nightmares where I show up to the gig and my drums are set up all wrong, so that I can barely reach them. Or they’re set up correctly but my arms move in slow motion, as if I’m underwater.

“And now,” Sara was saying, “as a reward, I get to go to the writing lab and work all night on my Shakespeare paper. How fun for me.”

“When’s it due?” I asked.

“Monday.”

The solution seemed obvious. “Put it off,” I said. “Come with me to the city and hang out.”

“I don’t know …”

“Come on, it’ll be good for you.”

She bit her lip. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

I assured her that I could use a friendly face. “Anyway, our set’s only an hour long. I’ll have you home by midnight.”

But at midnight we were still at the bar, still part of the electric cloud of urgent talk and meaningful glances and cigarette haze and sweaty bodies dancing to a jukebox strained to the limit, all of which came together in a great surge of energy that seemed to power this large city. I imagined that right now, a quiet home in some Jersey suburb was experiencing an unexpected burst of light
and heat because of what was being generated in this small music club way down in Greenwich Village.

Sara and I were at a table in the corner with Fred and his
girlfriend
, Eve. Fred had just invited us for a drink at their apartment a few blocks away.

I looked over at Sara, who for several hours now had been on a steady diet of rum and Cokes. She looked back at me and shrugged. “It’s your night, big guy. Whatever you want.”

“You sure Shakespeare can wait?” I asked.

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Because scholars everywhere are probably on pins and
needles
waiting to hear what you have to say.”

She lifted her hand and shared with me the international sign for
I’m not amused.

“Okay,” I said to Fred. “Maybe for just a little while.”

A half hour later, my drums were moving up flight after flight of stairs, carried by the three members of High Noon, Fred’s
girlfriend
, three other friends, Sara, and myself. Drums left in a car are asking to be stolen, so we carried and climbed our way up four stories to Fred’s apartment, one of many old buildings lining Sixth Street like a smile of dirty crooked teeth.

We collapsed on the floor. Fred put on a couple of dim lamps and went to change his shirt.

The apartment was old and worn-out, a typical rattrap, yet not without the charm that comes from old construction. High
ceilings
, wood floors. Eve pointed out the view of a small brick church through the bay window. “You can’t see it now,” she said, “but there’s some grass behind the church where they have
outdoor
weddings. It’s nice.”

A frantic beagle came running out of the bedroom, followed by Fred. “Ignore Garfunkel—I don’t want him pissing in here.”
He handed Pete, the rhythm guitarist, a bowl and lighter and then clipped a leash on the dog and left the apartment.

Eve put on a CD. Jimi Hendrix began quietly playing as the bowl and lighter got passed around the room.

The gig had gone well. Grunge music had been infiltrating nearly every nook and cranny of America, but in the West Village alternative rock still mattered. I’d have been happy to play the gig under any circumstances, but I found myself truly liking High Noon’s songs. This, I couldn’t help thinking, was a band with a future. After the first song, once it became clear to the other guys that they didn’t need to worry about me missing cues or rushing tempos, everyone seemed to relax.

“There’s a chance,” Fred said to me afterward, amid the
handshaking
and back-slapping, “that Ian will stay in California
permanently
. So if things work out for all of us this summer …”

“That’d be great,” I said.

“No guarantee, though.”

“Sure,” I’d said. “I understand.”

When Fred returned to the apartment, he carried the dog back to his bedroom, explaining that Pete was deathly afraid of small dogs.

“Dude, I’m
allergic
,” Pete said.

For the next hour we talked, the nine of us. We smoked, and we drank the beer that was in the refrigerator, and we ate slices of the pizza that I don’t recall anybody ordering, and Mark, the bassist, his face freckled and hair in dreadlocks, made an impassioned defense of pineapple as a topping until someone pelted him with a napkin.

Our conversations involved the whole group but also smaller numbers, and we talked not like strangers but with the warm, easy feeling of old friends.

Sara exhaled a stream of smoke, her body shrinking into a deep sigh. As far as Jeffrey knew, she was in the computer lab working
on her Shakespeare paper. She caught my eye and winked. One of her Texas gestures. Before leaving for the city, she had changed into a tighter pair of blue jeans and a black tank top, cut just low enough. She had stood at the rear of the bar at first and watched us play a couple of songs. But eventually she merged with a group dancing closer to the stage, the day’s annoyances appearing to have slid away.

She sat on the floor now, leaning against the sofa, boots kicked off, her hands clasped around her legs and her eyes closed. I took a good look at her and wondered if after three years, Jeffrey still felt the pleasure of arriving someplace with a woman who lit up a room. Like looking at an optical illusion, I could still see the
Dallas
Cowboys cheerleader, but I could also see the young woman I’d come to know. Somebody who wasn’t larger than life. Just a friend with a red bug bite on her ankle and fingernails bitten down to the quick.

I asked her if I might make an observation.

“Shoot,” she said, without opening her eyes.

“I don’t think that anything your teacher said means that she doesn’t think you’ll be a great writer someday.”

“Thanks, Will,” she said.

“Maybe you just need more experience. And in the meantime, she’s offered to help you make some contacts. I’ll bet you she doesn’t make that offer to too many of her students.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m guessing like one or two a year, if that.”

The hint of a grin. “Possibly.”

“So she probably thinks you’re talented, and she’s doing what she thinks is best for your career.”

She opened one eye and looked at me. “I’ve always liked you, Will.”

I assured her that the feeling was mutual.

Our numbers dwindled as the Hendrix CD ended and a Black Crowes CD began. The pizza was gone, and yawning became contagious. Gradually, people peeled themselves off the floor, bade farewell, and descended the stairs to whichever part of
Manhattan
or Brooklyn they called home. “See you soon,” they all said. I liked that.

Then it was just the four of us: Fred, Eve, Sara, and I. Fred let Garfunkel out of the bedroom. The dog clicked its way over to us and flopped onto its back so we could scratch its belly. We fussed over the dog for a while, and I looked at my watch.

“You two should stay,” Fred said. “I’ve got plenty of room.” His sister shared the two-bedroom apartment, but she was in DC visiting her boyfriend.