In Between Days (23 page)

Brandon looks around the empty café, laughing. “I don’t know, man. I mean, it’s pretty much a mob scene in here.”

Richard smiles. “Thanks, Bran,” he says, patting his hand, taking off his apron. “I owe you.”

A half hour later, however, as he sits outside the large Tudor house where he has come twice a month for poetry workshops this past year, he wonders if this possibility is really a possibility at all. For months he had believed that Michelson would give him just about anything he asked for, but would he now? Had he burned a bridge with Michelson? Had he wounded him too severely with his outburst? And which was worse in the end? Was it more humiliating to come back to Michelson with his tail between his legs or to whore himself out to a man he’d never met?

One thing is for sure. He’ll have to give Michelson something. An apology, for one, but also something else. He’ll have to tell him that he’s reconsidered his application to Michigan. He’d acted rashly, he’ll have to say. He hadn’t thought it through. He hadn’t considered the true enormity of the opportunity. In some ways, of course, it pains him to even consider this, to consider what he’ll be giving up, what he’ll be relinquishing by doing this, but on the other hand he understands now that he has a bargaining chip, something that Michelson wants, even if he isn’t sure if he wants it himself. Sometimes he wonders if Michelson is simply living his life vicariously through him, if he represents in Michelson’s mind some sort of incarnation of Michelson himself as a young man, the youthful promise and potential he’d never actually had. Or maybe it is, as he’d always assumed, a form of seduction, a way of getting close to him. There is, of course, the fact of Michelson’s betrayal, something he’ll probably never forgive, but there is also now the strange new possibility that Michelson might have actually been telling him the truth all along, that his work might actually show more promise than he’d originally thought, that he might actually belong at a place like Michigan after all. Aside from talking to his mother about this, he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, not to Brandon, and certainly not to Chloe, but a part of him has to acknowledge that on some level he’d been flattered by what Michelson had told him. Once he’d gotten past what Michelson had done, once he’d
settled down and considered it, he’d realized that Michelson had been right, that this wasn’t an opportunity to be taken lightly, that this might in fact be the only opportunity he’d ever have to go to a place like Michigan.

Ever since he’d returned from the café that night, he’d been turning it over in his head, vacillating between excitement and fear. One moment he’d be picturing himself sitting over drinks with a group of fellow poets, talking about Wordsworth and Keats; and the next, he’d have an image of himself sitting in a darkened classroom, biting the inside of his cheek as his professor made it clear to the room that he didn’t belong there. And of course he’d thought a lot about what he’d be giving up by leaving: Brandon and his other friends, the comfortable little life he’d created for himself here in Houston, the prospect of making a more responsible career choice, of pleasing his parents, of doing what other people considered the right thing. There didn’t seem to be an easy solution here, an easy answer, and compared with what his sister was going through, it seemed silly to even think about, but as he sits here now, staring at Michelson’s house, he has to wonder what it is that’s really stopping him. What, in the end, is the worst thing that could happen?

As it turns out, Mrs. Michelson isn’t home. This is among the first things Michelson tells him as he walks through the door, this and the fact that he’s happy to see him again, though he says this last part with a slight trace of guardedness, as if he’s still afraid that Richard might suddenly start yelling at him again.

Michelson shepherds him into the kitchen, offers him a glass of wine, which Richard accepts, then lays out some crackers and cheese. This is the first time that he and Michelson have actually been alone together in his house, and he can tell that Michelson is nervous. Maybe it’s the sudden reality of it all, the fantasy he’d rehearsed so many times in his mind finally coming true. The spider caught in his web. Or maybe his motives are much more sincere than Richard thinks. Maybe he’s got him all wrong. Maybe Michelson is simply trying to help him out, a concerned teacher trying to help out his star student. A man with a little too much time on his hands.

As they sip their wine, he explains to Michelson that he’s sorry, that he was out of line, that what he’d said to him at the café had been wrong. Michelson listens to him patiently, nods, and then finally accepts his apology. There’s something oddly formal about it all, the whole thing,
something that reeks of the principal’s office. Michelson is sitting far away from him, almost three feet, his arms crossed, his lips pursed, and he can tell that he’s still afraid, or maybe just nervous. Eventually, he decides to throw him a bone, tells him in a quiet voice that he’s actually reconsidering his application to Michigan, and at this, Michelson’s face suddenly brightens.

“You’re kidding,” he says.

“No.”

“Well, this is wonderful news, Richard,” he says, raising his glass and coaxing him into a toast. “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.”

Richard smiles at him, nods. “Well, it’s not like I’ve gotten in yet.”

“No, but I have a good feeling about this. I really do.” Then he stands up and puts down his glass. “Hold on a second, okay? I’ll be right back.”

A moment later he disappears down the hallway into the other part of the house, leaving Richard alone in the kitchen. As he sits there, he wonders what will happen now, what he’ll say to him, how he’ll bring up the issue of money. As soon as he mentioned his application, he’d regretted it, felt those old reservations coming back. What if he is making a mistake? he wonders. What if this is all wrong? One thing is for sure. He can’t go back now. Not at this point. Not after Michelson’s reaction. He sips his wine, looks around the kitchen, braces himself for what will happen next.

“I wanted to give you this,” Michelson says, returning to the kitchen, nearly out of breath. “This is my friend’s address and the address of the graduate office. You can send your statement to him and the rest of your materials—your transcripts and so forth—to the graduate office.”

He lays the paper down on the table in front of Richard, then picks up his wine again and sips it.

“I should do that this week?”

“Tomorrow, if you can. The sooner, the better.”

Richard looks at him and nods, though the thought of doing this tomorrow, of not having time to reconsider, is terrifying. He tries to hide his concern from Michelson, but Michelson notices.

“Are you sure you’re certain about this, Richard,” he says. “About your decision?”

“I’m positive.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yes.”

Michelson nods. “Well, okay then,” he says, and sips his wine. “Can I ask you what changed your mind?”

“I don’t know.”

“It must have been something.”

Richard shakes his head. “I don’t know. I guess maybe talking to my mother about it. I thought she was going to be against it, you know, but she was actually really supportive.”

“Parents can surprise you sometimes,” Michelson says.

Richard nods.

“And your father?”

“My father.” Richard smiles. “My father’s not going to be too happy about it, but I’ll deal with that later.”

“I take it the two of you don’t get along.”

“No, no.” He shrugs. “It’s not that. I mean, he’s fine. I mean, our relationship is fine, more or less. It’s just that something like this, you know, it’s just beyond his comprehension.”

Michelson nods and sips his wine.

The truth is, he hasn’t had a normal conversation with his father in over a year, but he doesn’t want to get into this with Michelson, sensing that Michelson’s interest is not entirely sincere. Is this his mode of seduction? he wonders. To form a bond with him, then to reel him in? Suddenly he feels the conversation getting away from him, moving in a direction he doesn’t want. Michelson pours himself another glass of wine, then reaches for Richard’s glass, and as he does this, Richard braces himself, prepares himself.

“There’s actually something else I wanted to ask you,” he says finally, trying not to look as transparent as he feels, trying to hide his unease. “I feel a little awkward asking you this, actually, and I’ll totally understand if you say no, but I was wondering if it might be possible for me to borrow a little money from you. Just a sort of short-term loan.”

Michelson looks at him, surprised. “Is this for your application fees?”

“No, no,” Richard says. “Something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to tell me what it is.”

“No. I can’t, really.”

Michelson pauses, and he can see that he’s soured the mood. “How much do you need?”

“Two thousand.”

“Two thousand dollars?”

“Yes.”

Michelson shakes his head. “That’s a lot of money, Richard.”

“I know.”

“Have you asked your parents?”

“Yes.”

“And they’ve said no.”

“They have.”

Michelson rubs his head. “Are you in some type of trouble, Richard?”

“No, no,” he says, and then pauses. “But my sister is.”

He hadn’t meant to say this, but now that he has, he realizes he needed to, that he needed to give Michelson something.

Michelson considers this. “Can I ask what type of trouble your sister’s in?”

“To be honest,” Richard says, “I don’t really know myself. I don’t even really know why she needs the money. I just know she needs it.”

Michelson narrows his eyes again. “Richard, if you’ll forgive me, this all sounds a little vague.”

“I know it does,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I’d love to help you out, of course, but I’m your teacher, Richard. I’m not a bank.”

Richard nods and realizes then that the matter is settled, at least in Michelson’s mind. He’s given his answer. He considers pursuing it further, taking another angle, but something in Michelson’s expression tells him it wouldn’t be worth it. It wouldn’t matter. He feels suddenly deflated.

“I’m sorry, Richard,” Michelson says, touching his hand.

“No, it’s fine,” Richard says. “It’s totally cool. I figured it was a long shot anyway.” He looks at his watch. “I should probably be getting back to work now actually.”

“You sure you don’t want to stick around? Maybe take a little swim?”

“No, no,” Richard says, standing up. “Maybe another time. Thanks, though.”

Michelson stands up then, too, and walks him to the door.

“Don’t forget about tomorrow,” he says, as they stand in the doorway. “You’ll want to get those materials off as soon as you can.” He pats Richard’s shoulder.

“I won’t,” Richard says, trying to smile, trying to hide his disappointment. “Thanks again,” he manages. “You know, for everything.”

“Richard,” Michelson says, grabbing his arm now, smiling. “I hope you understand, you never have to thank me for anything.”

Technically, he should be getting back to work now, finishing his shift, but instead he finds himself driving to a small used bookstore near his apartment and browsing the aisles. This is a place that he used to come to a lot when he’d first graduated from college, when he’d first started writing poetry, and later, in those days after he and Marcos broke up. There was something oddly comforting about this place, something oddly soothing about it, about being here, standing among so many books.

He’d often fantasized about what it might feel like to see his own book on one of these shelves, sandwiched somewhere between Donald Hall and Oliver Wendell Holmes, to pick it up and read from it, to study the tiny markings that another reader might have made in the margins, to wonder who that reader was. It seemed like such a remote possibility that anyone might actually want to purchase a book he had written, and yet it had still been fun to think about. He imagined giving readings, signing copies for his friends, giving a copy to his mother. He would get carried away sometimes, ignoring the absurdity of it, wanting to believe it could work.

Today, however, he is thinking only about Chloe and how disappointed she’s going to be when he finally talks to her, when he finally tells her the bad news, when he finally tells her that he’s failed to deliver on his promise. He’d never seen her as panicked as she’d been that morning when she stopped by his apartment.
I’ve never asked you for very much, Richard, have I? But I’m asking you for this. If there’s any way you can get me that money, you’d be saving my life. Truly. You’d be saving my life
. Saving her life? What had she meant by this? The words had haunted him. He trusted his sister, of course, trusted her more than anyone else, and knew that she wouldn’t be saying any of these things if she weren’t deadly serious, but still, what did they mean? He’d tried to get her to explain, but she wouldn’t.
Just do this for me, Richard
, she’d said, drying her eyes.
Please. If you do this for me, I’ll never ask you for anything else. Honestly
. And Richard, being the person that he was, being the brother that he was, had held her, had told her not to worry, had told her that he’d do whatever he had to do to get her that money.

But now what had he done? He’d failed on all counts. There was Brandon, of course, but Brandon could only get him so much. He’d thought about selling his iPod, or maybe even his computer, but it seemed unlikely that he’d be able to get the type of money he needed for either under such short notice. So where did that leave him? What other choices did he have?

Sitting down next to one of the bookshelves, he pulls out the tiny piece of paper in his pocket, studies the number, the name. Then he pulls out his phone, but stops himself before he actually dials the number. He wonders how he’d feel the next day if he actually went through with it, if he actually spent the evening with this man, whether he’d feel as dirty if he knew that he was doing it for a noble cause, for his sister. He wouldn’t have to sleep with him, Brandon had told him earlier. He wouldn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do. He could set the parameters from the start. He could back out anytime. And besides, maybe it wouldn’t even come to that. Maybe this guy would simply want to talk to him. Maybe he’d simply want his company. Brandon had told him how this happened all the time, how guys would take him out to dinner, maybe a movie, then just send him home. And maybe that’s all this was. Maybe it was as simple as that. And he could handle that, couldn’t he? Dinner. A little conversation. It wasn’t going to kill him. It wasn’t going to be the end of the world.