Knitting Under the Influence (14 page)

Sari felt a flash of pleasure and triumph. Jason Smith was asking her out on a date. And he was nervous about it. Her fifteen-year-old self squealed with joy. Then she remembered she wasn't fifteen anymore.

She said, “Thanks. I can't.” She sounded rude. She decided that was a good thing. “Goodbye,” she said and reached for the doorknob.

Jason put his hand flat against the door so she couldn't pull it open. “Wait,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I just have to ask. Did I do something to make you angry? I feel like maybe I said or did something—” He paused, took a breath, started again. “Maybe at the walk? Please tell me. The last thing I’d want to do is offend you in some way.”

It almost came out then. Did he really want to know how he had offended her? She thought of the stories she could tell, of the times Charlie had been humiliated and insulted and hurt in a million different ways by Jason and his friends.

But if she told him that, he would probably apologize, say he was sorry he'd ever been such a stupid kid. Then she would end up saying something conciliatory, like it was okay, she understood, it was all in the past… She didn't want to be conciliatory. She wanted to be angry. She
needed
to be angry.

So she smiled at him and said, “Don't be silly. You haven't offended me at all. And I don't want to offend you, either, so please understand—this kind of thing happens to me all the time. In fact, it happens to everyone who works at the clinic. Sometimes, unfortunately, people misinterpret our concern for their kids—read more into it than is actually there.” She tilted her head with a little sigh. “It's no one's fault. Just a little misunderstanding.”

“Oh,” he said. His face was turning red. “I’m sorry. I thought—” Once again he stopped.

“You don't have to be sorry,” she said. “And please don't be embarrassed. Like I said, it happens all the time. And, really, I think it's very sweet of you to ask me out.” She knew the word “sweet” would kill him. “But this is just a job for me. Even though I come to your house. You get that, right?”

“Of course,” he said, stepping back from the door. “Of course.”

“All right then,” she said with a deliberately fake heartiness. “I’m glad we got that all out in the open.”

He just nodded, not looking at her.

“So I’ll see you Monday?” she said.

“Yeah, all right.”

He couldn't close the door behind her fast enough.

She had totally humiliated him. She should feel good about that—revenge was supposed to be sweet, wasn't it?

But it was Friday night and she had no plans. She'd end up knitting row after row of that stupid baby blanket while she watched crappy TV and sipped at a glass of cheap wine. All by herself.

That really sucked.

II

K
athleen wasn't spending much time in her apartment. After work, she was either out with Kevin or at his house. She stayed over a lot of nights, and even when she bothered to come home, it was only to sleep.

It wasn't until she ran into Sam Thursday morning in the parking garage of their building that it occurred to her it had been a couple of weeks since she'd last seen him. He was dressed in a suit and tie and looked tired and grim as he walked toward his car.

Kathleen was heading
into
the building from the opposite direction, wearing the same tight electric-blue dress she had worn the night before to a club—when it had made sense to be wearing a low-cut dress that showed an almost indecent amount of her long lean thighs. She ran to catch up with Sam.

“Hey,” she said from behind as she reached him.

Sam turned around. “Kathleen,” he said. “Now I understand why I haven't seen you in a while.” He nodded toward the dress as if it explained everything.

Kathleen put her chin up and said, “I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that. Are you going into the office later? Or have you stopped doing that?”

“Of course I’m going in,” she said. “I’m still working.”

“Oh, I didn't say you weren't
working,”
he said. “You're clearly working hard.” He inclined his head politely and walked off.

That night, she and Kevin had a quiet tête-à-tête at a small, extremely expensive Italian restaurant in West L.A. where everyone who worked or ate there seemed to know him by name, and then they went back to his house, where they soaked in the hot tub for a while, which of course ended with them wrestling under the sheets together, and then Kathleen told him she had to go back to her apartment. “I need a good night's sleep,” she said, sliding off the bed and on to her feet. “And some clean clothes.”

“You should leave stuff at my place,” Kevin said. He was sprawled on the bed, where the rumpled Frette sheets bore witness to their recent activity. “I’ve got a whole second closet I only use for tuxedos and ski clothes. It's mostly empty.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Kathleen pulled her dress over her head.

“Want me to come with you?”

“You don't want to. The place is just a big empty mess.”

“How can it be empty
and
a mess?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “It just is.”

When she got home, it was even worse than she had remembered. Since she'd mostly been using the apartment as a big walk-in closet, clothes were tossed all over the place. A lot of them were dirty—after years of living with a housekeeper, she was having trouble getting used to doing her own laundry.

She pushed enough stuff off of her “bed” to clear some space for herself and went to sleep.

She woke up early the next morning, hurled herself into the shower, threw on a pair of decent black pants and a sweater (worn once or twice since the last dry cleaning, but not noticeably dirty), and raced up the back stairs. Sam's kitchen door was locked. She pounded on it. He might have already gone to work, she thought, and pounded harder.

Suddenly, it opened.

“What do you want?” He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. “It's eight o'clock in the morning.”

“I thought you left for work early,” she said. “You were already heading out this time yesterday.”

He ran his fingers through his rumpled gray and black hair. “I had an early meeting yesterday. And it almost killed me. I’m not a morning person.”

“I’m getting that sense,” she said. “Anyway, you're up now. I’ll run out and grab us some bagels and coffee.”

“Are you treating?” he said.

“Sure.”

He yawned. “Be careful, Kathleen. Don't go spending money you don't yet have. The prenup alone could cost you all sorts of setbacks and legal fees.”

“You know what?” Kathleen said. “I’m sorry I asked. Forget it.” She turned around and headed back down the stairwell.

“Sesame bagel and black coffee,” he called after her. “Very hot.”

By the time she returned, he had showered and put on his suit pants, socks and shoes, and a crisp white shirt.

He seated himself at the marble half-circle table and Kathleen thunked down the cardboard cups of coffee and two paper-wrapped bagels in front of him. She sat down. Sam immediately got up again with a sigh of disgust. He went to the cupboard and took out two plates, then made a big show of unwrapping each bagel and arranging it on a plate. He frowned when he unwrapped his. “Jesus, Kathleen, what the hell's on this?”

“It's lox spread,” she said. “I thought you'd like it. I do.”

“Disgusting,” he said. “Nitrates mixed with fat.”

“It tastes good. But if you don't like it, scrape it off.”

“Not worth it. I’ll eat something at work.” He dropped the bagel on the plate and left it on the counter, picked up his coffee, removed the plastic top, and threw it out in the wastebasket under the sink, then poured the coffee into a mug. He threw out the paper cup, returned to the table, sat down, and finally took a sip of coffee. “You're quiet,” he said.

“I’m waiting for you to drink your coffee. There doesn't seem to be much point in trying to make conversation until then.”

“True.” He took a few more sips, then looked at her over the top of his mug. “So,” he said. “Everything going well?”

“Fine.”

“I’m assuming that your continual absence in your own apartment reflects well on the success of your current pursuit?”

She shrugged. “I go out with Kevin a lot, if that's what you mean. In fact, tonight we're supposed to go to some big fundraiser. His dad's being honored.”

“What's the charity?”

“I don't know.”

“Good for you,” he said. “Girls shouldn't worry their pretty little heads with boring details like that.”

“Oh, who cares?” Kathleen said. “One charity is pretty much the same as another.”

“Your embrace of your own ignorance never ceases to impress me,” Sam said and took another sip of coffee.

“Don't be such a dick,” she said. “I need your help. You're a bigwig type—”

“Says who?”

“Kevin. He says you're a shark.”

“Really?” He looked pleased.

“I bet you go to things like this all the time. Tell me what I should wear—I’m going to be sitting with the Porters and I don't want to make a fool of myself.”

“Now
that's
what your pretty little head should be worrying about. What to wear.”

“It said ‘black tie’ on the invitation. Does that mean I have to wear like a ballgown? Or just a really nice dress?”

He flung out his hand. “How the hell would
I
know what a girl your age should wear when she goes out at night? Go pick up a copy of
Cosmopolitan.”

“You could be a little more helpful,” Kathleen said.

“No, I don't think I can.” He took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, why worry? Your fairy godmother will take care of the dress for you.”

“Actually,” Kathleen said. “When you think about it,
you're
my fairy godmother. I mean, you gave me the apartment and the job. And that's how I met Kevin—”

“Your Prince Charming.”

“The shoe fits,” she said. “No, wait, it's Cinderella's shoe that fits.” She shrugged. “Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Sam shook his head. “I can't wait for your happily-ever-after,” he said. “It's going to be so fucking miserable.” He raised his coffee cup and smiled. “Cheers.”

III

I
t was rare for Lucy to spend the night at James's apartment, because he lived like a slob and Lucy had standards about that kind of thing, but they had dinner on Thursday night together at a Cuban restaurant that was close to his place and served extremely strong mojitos, and after a few of those they staggered back to his apartment and fell into bed together and had some drunken sex and then more or less passed out for a while, and by the time the alcoholic stupor had worn off and she had woken up again, it was three in the morning and Lucy wasn't about to get into her car alone in Larchmont Village at that hour, and since James was sound asleep and snoring, she just sighed and tried unsuccessfully for several hours to go back to sleep.

Finally, there was daylight, and Lucy slipped out of bed. James's bathroom was just this side of disgusting—she suspected he cleaned it about once a year—but the shower was nice and strong. Since she had to wear her clothes from the night before, she was glad she had changed right before dinner—the plain black pants and dark blue silk shirt she had worn to the restaurant were unstained and fine for work.

It was still pretty early, so she stopped at Starbucks. She looked wistfully at the scones behind the glass as she poured a thimble of nonfat milk and a package of Splenda into her coffee.

She parked in the garage under the building. For once she would beat David to work—normally he was there when she walked in, already pounding away at his computer or changing the rats’ litter. Whenever he pointed her relative tardiness out to her, she, in turn, always pointed out that he wore an old T-shirt and jeans to work every single day and that she actually made an effort with her own appearance, which took time. “Yeah, well there aren't enough hours in the whole year to make
me
look decent,” he said once with a sigh and that successfully silenced her.

Lucy rode the elevator up from the garage and headed toward their corridor. She rounded the corner and saw someone at the lab door. Her first thought was that it was probably some kind of delivery that she'd need to sign for, so she was already speeding up when she realized that no, it wasn't a package, that the girl was putting something on the door, and then the girl had turned and seen her and there was a moment when neither of them moved, and then something about the panic in the girl's eyes made Lucy realize she couldn't just let her go, so she ran toward her and the girl scrambled away in the opposite direction—only then she must have realized she'd left her messenger bag leaning against the door because she hesitated and looked back, and in that moment Lucy had already caught up to her and didn't even need to see the “THERE'S BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS” sign hanging crookedly—the girl had only succeeded in tacking up one corner—to know she had just captured the
Enemy.

The Enemy was short, blond, a little on the pudgy side, and about twenty years old.

“You hurt my arm,” she said, cradling her elbow against her chest. She was sitting in a chair in the lab all hunched up inside the big black man's peacoat she was wearing.

She had twisted and fought when Lucy first grabbed her arm, and, since she was both frantic and determined, had succeeded fairly easily in breaking free of Lucy's grip—but Lucy had the foresight to turn and snatch up the girl's bag, and the girl stopped a few steps away, torn between escape and retrieval. Lucy had said—in as reasonable tone as she could muster between gasps for breath—”I’m going to know your name and where you live in a minute, so there's no point in running away,” and so, with a heavy step, the girl had followed her into the lab and waited, sullenly, for whatever was going to happen next.

Lucy dumped the contents of the girl's bag onto the desk. Papers, Sharpies, tubes of lip balm, keys, tissues, loose coins, and a wallet all fell out, followed by a can of spray paint, which then rolled off the desk and onto the floor.

She opened the wallet. “Hey, look—a student ID. That's helpful.” She studied it briefly, then looked up. “So how are you liking UCLA, Ashley? I see you're living off campus.” No response. “So what kind of name is Skopinker, anyway? Russian?” The girl was silent. “Ukrainian?” Ashley just glared at her. “Polish, maybe? Am I at least right to focus on Eastern Europe?”

“You can't do that,” the girl said. “That's my stuff. It's illegal to go through someone's stuff without a search warrant.”

“It's also illegal to pour paint on people's cars and send hate mail through the Internet,” Lucy said. “Maybe you and I should cut each other some slack.”

“You don't need to cut
me
any slack,” Ashley said. “I’ll be fine. It's the rats I’m worried about. Look at them, locked up in those tiny cages. Waiting to be slaughtered. Don't you have a heart? Or at least a conscience?”

“They love their cages,” Lucy said, with a brief glance over in that direction. “They're fed, they're warm, they have company—”

“Until you kill them.”

“It's a very fast, painless death. It's not like life is so great for a rat on the street, you know.”

“I bet they'd be willing to take that chance,” the girl said. “How about we set them all free and see whether or not they come back to their cages?”

“They'd die in a couple of days,” Lucy said. “Their adrenal glands don't function.”

“Holy shit,” the girl said. “What have you
done
to them?”

“They were born that way.”

“Bred that way, you mean.” The girl shook her head and her long blond hair swung first one way and then the other. It really was beautiful hair, Lucy thought. Too bad she was carrying around some extra weight, because the girl had potential. If she just lost twenty pounds and did something about her skin …

“It's scientific research,” Lucy said. “Ever heard of it? It's led to a lot of cures for a lot of people. For animals, too. In fact, Addison's disease is more common in dogs than in humans, and it's one of the—”

The girl cut her off. “There are ways of doing scientific research without torturing and killing harmless animals.”

“You're right,” Lucy said. “We could use college students instead. You want to be our first volunteer?”

The girl got up from her chair and walked over to the cages. “Poor little things,” she said. “What kind of a creature is man that he can do this to other animals without even feeling guilty about it?
We're
the ones without souls, not them.” She poked a finger in one of the cages and made little cooing noises for a while. Then she turned back to Lucy “Have you ever bothered to get down on their level and look them in the eyes, ever even
tried
to see the intelligence and the humanity—for want of a better word—that's in there?”

“Actually,” Lucy said, “believe it or not, I’m what you might call an animal lover. But I’m also a realist. Sometimes you have to kill a rat to save a human life, or two, or three thousand, and that's a choice I’m willing to make.”

“Easy for you to say. You haven't asked
them.
“ She gestured toward the rats.

“They're welcome to perform medical experiments on humans, as soon as it occurs to them to do so. And they get a grant from the NIH.”

“How can you say you're an animal lover? You think because you pet dogs now and then, that means you care?” She shook her head in sincere disgust. “If you really loved animals, you wouldn't just go and kill a few every week without even thinking twice about it—”

“No, not without thinking about it,” Lucy said. “I think about it all the time. And then I go ahead and I kill them because it's ultimately the right thing to do.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it is. Choices aren't always easy, Ashley.”

Ashley snorted. “That's what evil people always say. You start with small animals, then why not kill bigger ones? And while you're killing bigger animals, why not kill off sick or weak humans? And, if you're going to kill
them,
why not kill the ones you decide are inferior to you? Because they're like a different race or religion or something? And then, of course, you'll have to kill anyone who doesn't agree with you—”

“Don't tempt me,” Lucy said.

“It's not funny,” Ashley said. “Life is valuable.
All
life. Can't you see that?”

Before Lucy could respond, the door opened and David walked in. “Did you see the sign on the door?” he said. “I was thinking we should leave it up there for a while just to— Oh, hi. Who's this?”

“This is Ashley,” Lucy said. “She's the one who put the sign there.”

“Ah,” David said. “Is she also the one who's been dumping paint on James's car?”

“I’m guessing,” Lucy said. They both looked at Ashley. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared at the wall.

“It's not that I don't think James deserves it,” David said, sitting down at his desk. “For all sorts of reasons. Like—see that coffee cup over there? He left that, right on my papers and they're all stained now, thanks to him. A slob like that deserves to have some paint thrown on his car. But he doesn't deserve it because he does animal research. That's to his credit.”

“Are we done?” Ashley asked Lucy. “I’d like to get out of here. Can I have my bag back, please?”

Lucy appealed to David. “What do you think? If James were here—”

“He'd want her head on a platter,” he said. “But it's kind of a young head. And James can be a little … overreactive.”

“Yeah, I know.” Lucy turned back to Ashley. “Listen, if I let you go right now, will you promise to leave us all alone and go bother someone else?”

“Preferably in a different building,” David said.

Ashley scowled. “I haven't admitted to anything yet. Maybe I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Okay,” Lucy said, pulling a pad of paper toward her. “Here's the deal, Ashley. I’m writing down your name and address. If I find more signs or any of our cars gets covered with paint again or if we receive any more nasty e-mails, I will call the university administration and the police and tell them who's responsible. Do you understand?”

“You don't have any proof,” Ashley said. “And even if you did, I’d have to do what's right, no matter what the risk.”

“Yeah, well, if I were you, I’d make sure vandalizing research labs really
is
what's right before I went and got myself arrested for it.” Lucy tossed everything that had fallen on the desk back in the bag, then bent down and picked up the can of spray paint off the floor. “This, I’m not giving back to you,” she said and threw it in the trash can. “No good can possibly come of your having a can of spray paint. But you can take the rest and go.”

Ashley warily darted forward, snatched at the bag, and ran to the door. “Think about what you're doing,” she said. “Think about the pain you're causing these animals just because you're bigger than they are. Think about how you'd like to be treated if—”

“Think about the police coming to your door,” David said.

She shot him one last look of pure hatred and then was gone, slamming the door behind her.

David raised his fist in the air. “Vive la résistance!” he said cheerfully.

“Yeah, right,” Lucy said. “Do you think she thinks she's some kind of hero?”

“Definitely.”

“Someone should tell her about rats and the bubonic plague.”

“Someone should
give
her the bubonic plague.” He stared at the closed door. “Although, it was kind of a relief meeting her—she wasn't exactly an angry mob, was she?”

“She could have friends.”

“Or just crazy nuts on the Internet who encourage her to do this shit.” David leaned comfortably back in his chair and crossed his ankles up on top of his desk. “So … do we tell James?”

“Better not,” Lucy said, feeling a little guilty even as she said it. “We can always tell him if she does something else.”

“Do you think she will?”

“Now that we have her name and know she goes to school here, she'd have to be pretty stupid to target us again.” Lucy bent down and opened up one of her desk drawers. “Want some dried cranberries?”

“Sure.” She carried the bag over and poured a bunch into his outstretched palm. “It must be nice,” he said, gazing absently at the berries in his hand.

“What?” She put a single cranberry in her mouth.

“To be like that girl. To feel like you're one hundred percent right and everyone else is wrong. To be willing to sacrifice yourself for a cause without ever questioning whether it's really worth sacrificing yourself for.” He tilted his hand and let the cranberries fall into a pile on his desktop. “Nothing ever seems that clear-cut to me.”

“I know,” she said. “To me, either.”

They chewed away in thoughtful silence and finished off the bag of cranberries before getting down to work.