Long Division (27 page)

“Oh hey, Annie,” she said. It wasn't as enthusiastic as her usual
let me tell you about the great nonprofit I work for
voice. “I didn't know you shop at this market.”

“Yeah. My school's just down the street. I come here a lot. Doris's goat cheese is amaz—oh right, vegan. Sorry. But yeah, I come here. How are you?”

“Pretty well. I've been kind of down about Gus and all, but it's fine.” What? My first thought was that since I last saw him two days before, Gus had suffered some major accident. Fallen off a ladder. Crashed his delivery van into the side of the bowling alley. Why hadn't someone told me? Someone would tell me. My next thought was that he'd decided to move to Tibet or something and had just told Gina. But Gus would also tell me right away if he were moving to Tibet. He'd at least tell me he was thinking about it. Gina read my silence as confusion. “He told you we broke up, didn't he?”

“No. He didn't tell me.” And then I tried to think of all the right things to say, but I've never been good at condolences. I wasn't about to tell Gina how flawed Gus was or that she'd get over him in no time. I really didn't know much about the intensity of their relationship. And secretly inside I was thrilled by this news. Nothing against Gina, nothing at all, a lovely woman she is. In another version of this universe, perhaps she and I are bosom friends. My tongue swept around the inside of my mouth searching for an appropriate word to unite us as women, to offer her comfort, and to wholly conceal an elation derived from a situation that had brought her such lousy sorrow. So brilliantly I said, “That's too bad. Have you tried these beet greens?” And incredibly, Gina responded well.

“Yes, I love beet greens.”

“Me too.”

Silence. Silence. Silence.

“You're lucky, Annie. You know that, right?”

“Because I work so close to this market?”

“No. Because you have a terrific best friend.” And then Gina gave me this look of extreme envy. She picked up a tomato and raised it to her nose. Took a breath. Here it seemed like Gus had broken up with her and she's calling him terrific. Such maturity blows my mind. But there was a heavy sadness too. Like she believed that now, since she was Gus's ex-girlfriend, she would never be great friends with him like I was. Her Gus phase—her access to his bizarre imagination, incredibly thoughtful memory, and Max Schaffer-esque curiosity—had abruptly ended. The whole thing has made me consider that perhaps my longings for my own Gus romance are likely as advantageous as they are ridiculous. Her fallen eyes and forced smiles have convinced me that the risk of losing him is sooooo not worth it.

Gina and I exchanged a few more pleasantries. She told me about the band she's joining, and I told her about my plans to visit Boston next month to see my friend from college, Michelle, and that I'll probably see Stephen (our camping buddy) too. As we said goodbye near the green cartons of fresh strawberries, I saw her glancing at a young couple that wouldn't let go of each other's hands while trying to point out which carton of berries had the best stems for chocolate dipping. And though I don't even know if chocolate is vegan, I could definitely tell that Gina was sad. I was too.

 

I'm still puzzling why Gus didn't tell me about Gina. Maybe he'd just broken up with her before he gave me the book and didn't want to pull attention away from the moment of me diving into Annie Harper's time capsule. That's so like him. I can't decide if I should call him—everyone needs to discuss a breakup—or if I should just wait until he tells me. And whoa now, here I am assuming that Gus broke up with Gina. She didn't say. But the heaviness in her eyes made it seem that way. The way she called him terrific and me lucky. She didn't seem horribly conflicted.

 

I just got off the phone with David. It was the super lame kind of talking that everybody does, but that nobody ever includes in books or movies because it's too fucking dull. Unless the people are naked. (We were not naked.) Or unless the people are dangling from a rooftop by a shredded rope and trying to calm themselves by regular chitchat. (We were not dangling from a shredded rope.) Or unless the talking is really just in the place of some other more important conversation that one or more of the people just can't get herself to have or even admit to needing to have.
¹²⁰

And maybe it's because he's always so tired and I'm always so tired + conflicted + guilt-stricken + confused, but I swear this has been the oomph level of our last four telephone conversations. It's like we should just record them and play them to each other when we pick up the phone. Mundane-a-thon 2004! Summer Mopefest Live! Don't touch that dial! No wait, go ahead. Then come back in three minutes and you'll hear the same damn thing. Here this is supposed to be a rich, vivid (however difficult) experience for us—especially him—and we're talking about how our mothers are doing. (!!!???!?!?) Isn't my mother supposedly telling David how she's doing? He never asks about my students anymore. In years past, he could tell who my favorites were before I could. Because I'd be sharing anecdotes about the cutest ones and whining to him about the yay-hoos and spitting off my life's details like I absolutely had to tell him. Like I'm this wet, heavy Washington cloud that needs to get the rain out at least once a week. And I knew more about his life. Who in his company was getting promotions and who was failing their PT tests. He hasn't told me about a pregnant army wife all year!
¹²²

I've been thinking about this a lot, and so I'm going to try to map out a theory. Here goes:

But maybe it's not the strains of the situation that have brought us down. Maybe it's the strains of the situation that have revealed a larger hole in what I thought was a sturdy and interesting relationship? If our closeness has always been grounded in plain banter and plain closeness, what kind of relationship is that? Besides one another, what shared interests do we even have? Beer? Snuggling? Badminton? Do I owe the W.A.R. and the George W. for tossing me into this lame situation that has ended up revealing something true? Has the tragedy of others saved me from a long life of yawned
So how is your mother?
I'm taking this issue to Loretta.

“Loretta, David and I are growing apart.” I whinnied it out like a teenager complaining about his parents' objection to buying him a drum set. Like I was blinded by my confusion, unable to extract any reason for why the obstacle even exists. I wanted an easy answer from Loretta. A quick, simple fix. I wanted to rail on the surface of a tight, loud snare.

“Oh honey, of course you feel that way.” We were sipping lemonade made from lemons I brought and a dozen packets of Sweet'N Low. Loretta said she's too old to worry about the health risks of artificial sweeteners. (“I'm already sterile, and my bones are petrified peanut brittle.”)

“It's not like you've been able to talk to him like you always have. That's the hardest part.”

“Not talking?”

“Yes. Being physically away from someone you love is easy. If you can speak all the time and keep abreast of each other's goings ons, you'll be fine. You don't need to be beside someone to have an intimate relationship. But if the communication isn't regular—if you're not writing and he's not writing every single day and with specific information and feelings—then naturally, you'll have drifted.”

“Every day? Did you and Ron write every day?”

“Of course. Why don't you try it?” Loretta said this like she was suggesting a new brand of laundry detergent that is oh-so-conveniently on sale. So simple, child. Do a few loads of whites!

“Well, David can't get to the Internet every day, and I'm just now done with school.”

“Man knows how to hold a pen, doesn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“And you know how to hold a pen?”

“I certainly do.”

“Then maybe you two just need to try a little harder these last few months. Go buy yourself a book of stamps, Annie Harper. Write your heart out to this man, if you love him.” Loretta is probably right. It's not time to give up yet. Tough times don't always constitute grounds for surrender. Maybe I do still love David. Maybe it's just my dormant hormones mischievously poking me with goofy shit about Gus. How has Lonesome George held out for so long!? Annie Harper the First wouldn't give up now. No sir-ee. I considered telling Loretta about the note David left me about the Laws of My Heart—just so she knows that I've got an escape clause. But I decided to keep it in and march onward into the frothy blur of a faded relationship. I'm hoping for clear, practical sunshine once I make it through. I've resolved to visit the post office on Monday and to tell David all about mine and Loretta's shared theory and to try my best to feel like I'm in a relationship that's more than checking the newspaper to make sure the other party hasn't died. WAHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

 

Okay, since I'm trying to be more honest with this writing tapestry, let's just go with a modest “wahoo.”

T
oday I'm calling my book
On the Tailbone of the Luck Monster.

 

I had spent a pleasant afternoon at Spanaway Lake. It's a small lake in one of the less savory neighborhoods of South Tacoma. It's surrounded by a modest park with bike paths and picnic tables where local teenagers eat Taco Bell food and make out. It's one of my favorite of Gus's teasing points that he used to play live-action, role-playing Dungeons & Dragons there in junior high. I brought a book and the latest issues of the
Economist
and
Us Weekly.
Though I didn't start reading the former periodical until I had breezed completely through the latter, I still felt like I accomplished much in the form of adult reading. I'd brought a tuna sandwich, two bananas, and a roll of those minty Girl Scout cookies that I'd frozen in the spring.
¹²⁴

In the late afternoon, the park gets swallowed in shadows. If you try not to think about all the sex offenders who pick up victims there and about the rumored two-headed fish that circle the brown lake, then the dusky hours can have a fairly magical feel. Surrounded by massive evergreens (sometimes up to the shore, with roots draping into the water), everything at Spanaway Lake feels soft and covered. As I was reaching down to inspect what was either an agate or a worn chunk of a brown beer bottle, I spotted a mother duck and her brood of ducklings dipping into the water. There were eight of them. I know this because I followed them stealthily along the little path that borders the lake's edge as they careened in and out of nooks of cattails and skunkweed. There was one duckling that kept lollygagging behind and two little ass kissers that were determined to follow their mother right flush behind her waving webbed feet. They were faster than I expected. I was walking at a fair clip to keep up with them, and at moments when I thought I'd lost them, my heart would sink. I'd say something like
No no, baby ducky family. Wait for Annie.