Farewell Navigator Page 6

  Let them do as they may, I said.

  Julian was on the other side of the espresso machine talking to Anne Sarah. I didn’t much like Anne Sarah; she had two names, which smelled of ambition. She was pursing her lips at my Julian. She was throwing her hair and she had plenty to throw, huge glossy locks that had needed at least a half-gallon of bleach. She put a blue straw between her teeth and let it dangle. I thought I heard him say, What time do you get off? but this was not possible, since how could the phrase of a frat boy, a common hustler, come out of Julian’s elegant mouth? Anne Sarah said something too low for me to catch. She was by now sucking on the straw, hoisting it slowly up and down.

  Jerome rang up my tea and a large coffee. Both were cold by the time Julian finished his conversation with the straw-wielder.

  Sorry sweetie, he said, we were talking about God.

  Ginna, my ethical thermometer, gave stern counsel. He’s already sweating two of my roommates—your chances are slim. You need to abandon this pipe dream.

  Blah, I said merrily. How are you defining sweating?

  Dragging under the stairs by the cafeteria. Attempting to fornicate with.

  That’s a lie!

  Why would I lie? I’ve got no investment. I don’t give anything remotely resembling a fuck. I have heard the reports.

  Those girls are lying, I said, because he’s so handsome. They want it to be true. But he doesn’t like vaginas.

  I think he’s quite fond of them, actually. She rammed another cake slice into her mouth and mumbled, The red flags are flying from the battlements.

  After dinner he stood on the badly lit smoking porch with a paperback spread open in his long fingers. The book looked serious: there was no picture on the front. So diligent, my Julian, trying to keep his brain alive in this illiterate circus tent. A herd of girls kept interrupting him with their snorts and whinnies. Whatcha reading? Check out Mr. Intellectualist, he reads standing up, Jesus.

  It’s called Diss-see-muh-nation.

  Ooh, is it about semen?

  Julian smiled. In a way. In a remote way.

  I like books about semen.

  Me too. Who wrote it?

  A French philosopher, he said darkly.

  The admiring gaggle flocked closer, smothering him, until he shut the book. I listened sadly from the other end of the porch. He should not allow himself to be distracted. He should steel himself against those vaginas. If I were his boyfriend I’d let him read in peace. If I were his boyfriend I would admit that I had finished only two semesters at Eau Claire Community College, and ask him to tutor me in the life of the mind, stretch out beside him while he read the semen book aloud.

  Just after curfew there was a knock on our door. Chuckie, swathed in sweatshirt, scarf, and jeans despite the overheating radiators—he made sure to keep his body covered at all times—went to open it. What’s up, Little Professor?

  Where’s Timothy?

  I was under the covers, reading a book my counselor had given me about people who love too much. I shoved the book down toward my feet and affected a sleepy grin.

  Chuckie looked suspiciously from me to Julian, then sidled out of the room. Julian sat boldly at the end of my bed. The fact of his body on the blanket, alone with mine, made my teeth start to chatter.

  I have a naughty plan, he said.

  What’s that?

  Mexico, he said.

  Mexico?

  As in, let’s go.

  Oh!

  I’m sure we can find a cheap flight, he went on. I’m sick of these Midwestern skies. I want sun, I want decadence.

  It would be hard to stay sober in Mexico, I said.

  He just kept smiling.

  Oh, I said.

  You down?

  I guess. I mean, yes!

  All right then, he said. Tell no one. Especially not your fat little friend. We’ll make the arrangements tomorrow.

  But what will. . . .

  Sleep tight, sweet thing! He tapped his finger on the tip of my nose and departed.

  When Chuckie came back in he made a glancing search of the room for evidence of hasty grappling.

  It was awful not telling Ginna. I wanted to flaunt the proof of Julian’s devotion. The secret was too delicious to keep, but I kept it. I floated through the day under a Mexican sun—I could feel its heat, even as the snow began dropping after lunch and fell until dinnertime, when the people with jobs came trudging back to the house. Julian was one of the last to arrive. I was waiting discreetly by the fish tank. He unwrapped his red scarf, shook melting flakes from his hair, and gave me a tantalizing purse of the lips.

  We’re set, he whispered. I made some calls. There’s just one minor hitch.

  Hitch?

  Cash for the tickets. I’m totally dry at the moment. If you could front my half, I’d pay you back as soon as my parents stop detaching with love. I think they’re coming around. Shouldn’t be long now.

  I asked how much. He said two grand. That seemed like a lot for plane tickets to a country that was right next to our country.

  Sounds cool, I said, except for I don’t have a job and—

  But your father’s an attorney, is he not?

  How did you know that?

  You told me. Didn’t you tell me?

  The bell rang shrilly from the cafeteria, launching a wave of bodies out of the lounge. See what you can do, murmured Julian, brushing a wayward clump of hair off my forehead. Because Mexico is a great deal more romantic than this here little panopticon.

  Our cul-de-sac lay just off West Seventh, the artery between downtown and the airport. It was a long, grubby street of package stores and Super Americas. Air was foulest near the river, by the breweries, where yeast settled in the clouds. Smokestacks rose wisping behind the rooftops of sad houses that clustered on the side streets. On the corner of West Seventh and Juno was a dealership called Timberwolf New & Used. My father was going to kill me, but he wouldn’t actually kill me. He’d be angry for a while, and bring up the name of my mother, who would be turning in her box. Hadn’t I done enough to disgrace her. Wasn’t it bad enough to get arrested on the sidewalk in front of that goddamn sodomy farm. (It’s a dance club, Dad.) What were you doing with all those goddamn pills, are you some kind of idiot? (They weren’t even mine. Another guy’s I was holding them for.)

  By the time he learned of my departure I would be in Mexico, maybe never to return. You could live in Mexico very cheaply, I’d been told. Julian would read philosophy in Spanish and I would cook feasts of spiced cornmeal and guava leaves. It would never be cold. Julian could teach me the proper positions. My inexperience would delight him, thrust him into the starring role. Our skins would turn brown and gorgeous. We’d drink tequila if we felt like it, but never to excess.

  The Timberwolf man did a fast appraisal and returned to the office looking wary. This vehicle is in pretty good condition, he said. Why you getting rid of it?

  My mother’s sick. Her coverage won’t pay for the extra medication.

  Show me them papers again? He scanned the title and insurance and my driver’s license a few more times. Twenty-one’s the best I can do, he said eventually.

  That will be fine, sir, I said, as my stomach fizzed and crinkled.

  I offered to accompany Julian to the travel agent’s, but he would not hear of it. Honey, you’ve done enough! he purred, tucking the cashier’s check into his chain wallet. Your footwork is over. Time to relax. Take a nap—snuggle under. By the time you wake up I’ll have the tickets.

  It was Saturday, the longest and bleakest day at the house. There was nothing scheduled. Nothing to do except watch sports in the lounge or go sit in a coffee shop. I usually slept for most of Saturday, but now I couldn’t. In the waiting my eyes wouldn’t close; once he had set off, in his red scarf and adorable boots, I started pacing around the house. There was a rough game of spades in progress near the fish tank. A girl was weeping on the phone by the laundry room. In the stairwell off the dining room, V
incent and Anne Sarah were locked in embrace. I found Ginna at her usual post, sampling a special weekend item—sticky buns—and reading a pamphlet entitled Get Busy Living: How to Thrive, Not Just Survive, Without Chemicals.

  Are you learning great things? I asked.

  Many great things. Such pleasures await me as, page three, taking long walks in the sunshine with a friend. Want one? She nodded back at the tray of gleaming buns.

  I have no appetite.

  Still lovesick?

  I smiled and nudged the secret back into my mouth.

  You’ll be on your own with that fruitless project as of Monday.

  Monday?

  My out date, she said. I am gone, released. Weren’t you aware of this?

  This Monday? Where will you go?

  Ginna narrowed her eyes, then rolled them. I told you, that studio above the video store. The month-to-month. You’re going to help me decorate. Remember?

  Oh right! (But I would be in Mexico.) I’ll miss you, I said. I really will.

  It’s practically down the street. All you’ll have to miss is how pretty I look first thing in the morning, before I put my contacts in.

  By dinnertime I was worried. It was snowing again, which had maybe made the streets impassable, stranding Julian at the travel agent’s. Are we having a blizzard? I asked the night tech. That snow looks fierce.

  A few inches tops, he said witheringly.

  Our ranks were small in the cafeteria. Attendance at weekend meals wasn’t mandatory, and the only people who ate at the house on Saturdays were the people who couldn’t think of anyplace better to go, or who were too depressed to drag themselves to a place even if they could think of one. I stuffed myself with rolls. The pork loin didn’t look bad, or the mashed potatoes either, but I stuck exclusively to bread, slathered it with butter, hoped the spongy flour would soak up some of the acid in my stomach. Ginna, who couldn’t see the acid or the worry pressing against the backs of my eyes, struggled to get her mouth around a towering sandwich of pork, potatoes, mustard greens, and mayonnaise. Drips of potato flecked her chin.

  On a break between bites she asked could I drive her things over to the new apartment on Monday. A formality, this asking, since she knew I would—or would have, if I still owned a car. Sure, I said, seeing no reason to notify her of the car’s disappearance. By Monday she’d have read my farewell letter, with its heartfelt wishes of luck, its promise to send postcards from sun-drenched villages. She would understand, if not at first, then over time. She was my friend and wanted me to be happy. Take it wherever you can get it, she liked to say of happiness, because it’s not hanging from a whole lot of trees. I’d told her she ought to publish these wise sayings and live off the royalties.

  At midnight the tech locked the front doors and read the sign-out sheet to see who had broken curfew. Where have all the flowers gone? he asked the air. Graciela B.: movie. Liam O.: shopping. Julian Q.: search for meaning.

  Liam pounded on the thick glass doors a few minutes after twelve. The tech let him in and said he was grounded for one week.

  But, like, no way, protested Liam. My watch says five of.

  Of no consequence, said the tech. Mine says four past.

  But it’s so not my fault. I thought I was on time. How can I get grounded for having a cheap watch? What is this, the Fourth Reich?

  Welcome to Bergen-Belsen, said the tech.

  I find that incredibly offensive, called Ginna from the couch, where we were cuddled under blankets watching a murder mystery set in an elf-ridden Welsh village.

  The tech ignored her.

  Anne Frank died at Bergen-Belsen, she insisted. You don’t just go bandying that word about.

  Who’s Anne Frank? asked Jerome.

  It had stopped snowing. Our lawn lay glittering, a pale sea spreading from the rails of the smoking porch, where I went to stand vigil. I waited until one. Until two. Until I couldn’t feel my feet. I saw police cars surrounding him—a bus hitting him—the snow swamping him under a great white weight. These scenarios played in vibrant colors on the ice-screen of the lawn. Julian’s body getting crunched by a taxi meant I was not a total fool. Julian’s limbs ripped from his torso by vultures meant my expectations had been reasonable. Julian rushing to make curfew, sprinting across the train tracks near our cul-desac, deaf to the locomotive’s horn, the tickets burning in his pocket—bam!—tickets now shredded, like his flesh, by the shrieking wheels, meant I hadn’t been suckered.

  Oh, but I had.

  At three A.M. I climbed back down to my room. Chuckie was snoring in the light of both lamps. I went to sleep in my clothes.

  Tonight, said the head counselor, we say good-bye to a resident who has successfully completed our program—let’s hear it for Ginna W.!

  We clapped, and some nice things were said by the other counselors. A shiny medallion was pressed into Ginna’s palm with cheerful instructions to stay the course. She blushed and muttered.

  When the happy moment was over, and Ginna had thudded back down next to me by the bubbler, the head counselor stopped smiling. We are also bidding adieu, he said, to some people who have not been successful at obeying the rules of this community. I am sorry to announce that Arnold P. and Timothy T. are being discharged for noncompliance with employment expectations.

  A hum of interest rippled the crowd. Those who had been sleeping during Ginna’s ceremony lifted their heads. Bad news was the most reliable source of entertainment at the house. I searched for Arnold’s face, found it, saw no change upon it. His mouth sat in its usual sneer. He had pride; I would have some too. Tears were pinching my eyeballs but I didn’t need to let them fall.

  The head counselor was not finished. As many of you already know, Julian and Graciela did not come home last night and have, of course, been discharged in absentia. Not a stellar weekend for our community. I hope the rest of you will take some time to reflect on the consequences your peers are facing, so that such consequences need not be visited on your heads in future.

  Our community dispersed to smoke and play cards. Arnold and I were taken into the office to sign papers. This is bullshit, remarked Arnold calmly.

  I said nothing, because the tears were too close.

  Julian laughing as he cashed the check.

  Graciela neighing at his side.

  The hatchback being steered across dried cow pies by a farmer’s hammy knuckles. My mother rotating in her box. My father—

  Has been notified, the tech told me. Mentioned something about the last straw. Said you could damn well sleep in your car for the time being.

  Least you have one, spat Arnold. It’s back to the streets for me, motherfuck.

  Spare us, said the tech.

  The next morning Ginna’s suitcases were waiting by the fish tank. I put my duffel bag next to them and sat down on the carpet. Arnold and his luggage had already been whisked away by a woman in a pink truck.

  Johnnycake, returning from breakfast, told me to get up off the floor. Muster some dignity, he said. You got a lotta more years to live, boy. Start making use.

  I will, I said from the floor.

  Then stand up. Greet the day. Where you headed from here?

  I don’t know.

  Shut up with the forlorn, he said. You be fine. Get a job while you still have your health.

  I’m ready! yelled Ginna from down the hall. Start the engines! She came up smoothing an enormous plaid shirt down over her thighs. Good-bye, Johnnycake. They hugged. He looked at me, debating, then chose an enthusiastic handshake.

  Ginna, I said as we dragged our bags toward the parking lot, there is no more engine.

  What?

  Let’s take the bus.

  The bus stop is seven blocks away. Where the fuck’s your car?

  Got towed, I said. (Guilt.) Stolen, actually. (More guilt.) No, I sold it.

  She just looked at me for a little while, then put her suitcases down, went back into the house, and came out again two minutes later. I called
a cab, which you can pay for with some of your cash bounty.

  The cash is not exactly bountiful, I said.

  Oh, God—what’d you do—offer to subsidize Julian and Graciela’s honeymoon at Ye Olde Shooting Gallerie Bed & Breakfast?

  Possibly so, I admitted.

  Ginna’s new home was on the second floor above Fantasy Video. It was clean, except for the bathtub, and her morning commute was now five seconds long. Month to month, she reminded herself out loud to stave off the sadness of living in a tiny wood-paneled room overlooking an alley above the adult video store where you work. Totally temporary.

  Temporary, I echoed, armed with bleach and paper towels. I had offered to deal with the bathtub, which was encrusted with unidentified brown-red matter. While I scrubbed she sat on the toilet, smoking, and lectured me about my stupidity. You’re a nice person, she said, and thus you assume other people are nice too. They are not. Most people are not nice at all. You have to act accordingly.

  Isn’t that kind of depressing?

  Not as depressing as being robbed blind by a trifling poseur.

  God bless him, I said feebly.

  Moving along. New subject. Let’s think of where to have dinner tonight. To celebrate. Toast our new freedom. Free of the house, free of trifling poseurs. . . .

  Free of car, I added.

  After the sun went down, we woke up hungry from our naps on a sleeping bag and a folded blanket. The Copper Dome Restaurant was two blocks away, an acceptable walking distance for Ginna, and specialized in thirteen varieties of pancake. I had original buckwheat, she had banana chocolate chunk. We did not talk about the future. Did not discuss my staying or going. My father was not mentioned, nor Ginna’s mother, who often asked Ginna wasn’t it enough to have been plunged into these reduced circumstances—did she have to be getting fat in the bargain?

  On the walk back, flakes caught on our lashes. The floor of the city sparkled quietly. The snow would stop, and morning would come. Ginna would go downstairs to stand behind the smut counter while I drank the coffee she had cooked on the two-ringed stove. The air would be cold against the blurry panes. And I would make the call to my father, who sat worrying in Wisconsin, and give him more reasons to be disappointed.