November Surprise (14 page)

It’s twenty minutes to five when I get to Jack’s, which
means I’m actually a little early. He’s sitting at the bar, going over the
night’s specials, his cell phone pushed to the side. I can tell instantly
something is wrong. Emotions hang off Jack like soggy towels: heavy and no
longer useful. Unless, of course, he’s in a good mood. That’s more often the
case, and then he smiles so much you either want to punch him or give in and
smile back.

I pull up a stool and sit next to him. He looks up from his
menu.

“Oh, hey Lucy,” he says in a flattened voice.

“What’s up?”

He thinks for a moment and his eyes travel over his phone.

“I just tried calling Monty again. I haven’t heard from him
in so long, and he hasn’t returned any of my calls or emails.” He sighs. “Mom
is really worried.”

The last time I saw Monty was on the night of his dad’s
funeral, when he was so sad and conflicted. Shortly after, Monty returned to
Brazzaville, back to his job and his girlfriend. Since then Jack has tried to
keep his family connected, and inevitably feels despondent when his efforts
don’t pan out.

I shift in my chair and pick at one of my cuticles. “That’s
not so unusual, is it? Haven’t you gone a long time before, not hearing from
him?”

Jack shakes his head. “Not this long. And the last time we
did speak he said he was feeling off. Makes me worried.”

I bite my lip. Jack still doesn’t know about what happened
between Monty and me, but that’s not the only reason I don’t want my concern to
show.

“Wouldn’t Evelyn let you know if something was wrong?”

Jack shrugs his shoulders, grabs his cell phone, and hops
off the bar stool. “I doubt it. She always struck me as pretty selfish.”

With that Jack walks off toward the kitchen. Can a woman who
is helping African rape victims actually be selfish? I hope so. It may be petty
of me, but I’d rather the woman Monty’s with be beneath him. If she’s perfect,
then there’s no chance he’ll ever leave her.

I shake my head and force myself out of my reverie.
Come on, Lucy. Get real. Move on.

It’s been years, and we both did move on to other
relationships. And my relationship with Drew is over. Now, as my peers are
getting married, having kids, and settling into careers, I’m living the life of
a teenager. Lately for fun I read and reread all five of the Harry Potter
books. I even have a great idea for a bonus lecture to give at the end of the
semester, about the connections between Osama Bin Laden and Voldemort, Al Qaeda
and the Death Eaters, and the destructiveness of denial in a post 9/11 world.

If I’m lonely, I have only myself to blame.

I sigh and look around the room. A distraction right about
now would be welcome. I turn my attention towards the television above the bar.
It is turned on, and John Kerry is speaking to a crowd. Even in shirtsleeves he
looks wooden and stiff. If I had to pick between John Kerry and Harry Potter,
I’d pick Harry Potter every time.

John Kerry was not my first choice for the Democratic
nominee. I actually volunteered for the Howard Dean campaign. I made phone
calls and organized meetings. It was all going fairly well until he made some
gaffes, had a contentious interview on
Meet
the Press
, and the Republicans started insisting he was their choice to go
against Bush in the general election, because they were sure he’d lose. So John
Kerry became our nominee, and that has presented its own set of challenges.

And I’m tired of feeling challenged.

I grab my purse off the top of the bar. Jack lets me keep it
in his office while I work, but before I bring it back I take out my cell
phone, just to make sure I have no messages.

Of course, I don’t. The only messages I ever get are from
telemarketers. Feeling defeated, I drop off my purse, grab my waitress apron,
and start working. The signs of an evening rush are apparent, and soon I have a
handful of tables. I smile, hand out menus, and take orders.

My evening goes by in fits and starts. We’re slow, then
we’re busy. Jack is smiling and joking with the wait staff, and then he’s
scowling in a corner, talking on his cell phone. I recite the specials to my
customers, move in a way that tries to be both efficient and invisible, and
count my tips as guests at each table finish their meal and exit into the
night.

Sometime after 8:30 a couple comes in and sits in my
section. The guy has dark hair with hints of grey. I fetch two glasses of water
and head over to their table.

“Good evening,” I say. “How are you tonight?”

They mumble they’re okay, and I ask them if they’re
interested in hearing the specials. The woman says yes, so I launch into my
description of baked red trout with parsley pesto, but I’m interrupted.

“Lucy?”
I look into his eyes. My knees feel weak and my throat goes dry. My eyes pan down,
and I notice for the first time that he is sitting in a wheel chair. The
visceral response I had when he said my name and met his eyes wasn’t unfounded.
It’s him.

“Reggie,” I say, in little more than a whisper.

“Wow, I didn’t know you were still in town.” He turns to his
date, who must also be his wife, because they’re both wearing rings. “Babe,
this is Lucy. We went to high school together.”

She smiles, and there are crinkles around her eyes that make
her seem genuine and friendly. “You and Reggie were friends?”

I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out.

“We used to argue all the time in civics class, didn’t we,
Lucy?”

I bite my lip. How can he sound so casual and easy? Does he
not remember spitting in my face, while some anonymous friend of his held me
captive? I can still hear the ugly words he said to me; they ring in my ears
when I’m feeling particularly bad about myself or the world, and every so often
he torments me in my dreams.

Reggie continues on as if I’d answered him. “Are you still
attached to losing candidates, Lucy? I suppose you like Kerry.”

I find my voice. “I actually wanted Howard Dean.”

“Howard Dean? The screamer?”

Reggie is referring to what happened on the night of the
Iowa primary.

Dean, who had been the front-runner for months, came in
third. He was trying to raise the spirits of his supporters and give a rousing
speech. Unfortunately he had a cold, so his voice was horse and his face was
red. There was also a problem with his microphone, and he had to yell really
loud.

“I was there for his speech,” I tell Reggie. “I was actually
in the audience, and there was nothing weird about it.”

Reggie laughs like I’ve said something hilarious. “The guy
went crazy on national television. It was classic.” Then Reggie tries to
imitate the scream, which borders on a yelp. “Yehawwworrr!” His wife laughs,
but the volume in the restaurant is loud enough that people barely pause and
look over at us.

I push down my indignation and speak rationally. “If CNN
hadn’t run and rerun that moment over 400 times in the hours after it
happened…”

“So the liberal media had it out for Howard Dean? Come on,
Lucy. It was a story. They were doing their job.” Reggie leans back in his
wheel chair, satisfied.

“They labeled it the ‘I have a scream’ speech. It’s all
anyone will ever remember about him. Later on, CNN even admitted they overdid
the coverage.”

“Whatever. Now you have Kerry, which is better for you. Dean
never would have won. At least Kerry has a chance.”

I wonder if that’s true. Ever since Kerry was “swift-boated”
and his service in the Vietnam War was tarnished as a result, things have been
shaky. But I feign confidence.

“He’ll do,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll be a much better
president than Bush was.”

Reggie laughs again and gives me this fakey finger-point
gesture, like I’m on fire or something. “It’s nice to see you. Funny, I never
would have pegged you to be a waitress fifteen years after graduation, but if
you’re happy, then good for you.”

I bite my tongue to keep from saying something snarky. I
can’t let myself get emotional while working at Jack’s restaurant. So I swallow
the bile that rises in my throat, and ask them if they’re ready to order.

Afterwards I make my exit to the kitchen, where I lean
against a wall to catch my breath. I’ll admit, there have been times when I’ve
fantasized about telling Reggie off and putting him in his place, even after so
long, even after the bad hand life has dealt him.

But is it so bad? Maybe he’s fine, better off then me. At
least he’s married, and maybe they have kids. Who knows what he does for a
living, but it’s probably better than waitressing.

How must I look to him – no ring on my finger, working
here, and still unable to stand up for myself? I’m sure he thinks I’m as
pathetic as I was back in high school. It’s like I’ve made no progress at all.

The kitchen door opens, and Petra walks through it. “Hey,
Lucy,” she says. “Have you seen Jack?”

“Not for twenty minutes or so,” I tell her. She doesn’t come
by the restaurant too often. Over the years Petra and Jack have had their ups
and downs, but they always manage to scrape by. Lately though, Jack has told me
it can be a strain on their marriage that he’s always gone at night. Maybe
she’s come by to spend more time with him. “Do you want me to check his office
in the back?”

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll check.”

She walks back to Jack’s office, and I leave the kitchen and
enter the bathroom. I don’t have to pee or anything, I just need to splash some
water on my face. The cold feels like relief against my flushed cheeks, and for
a moment I’m suspended, eyes closed, feeling and hearing the sound of that
splash. Splashes have always been one of my favorite sounds; I can’t think of
anything more pure than the chime of water moving against itself.

Then I hear a toilet flush, and my moment is over. I stand
up straight and look in the mirror, smooth my hair, dry my face, and attempt to
make myself presentable. Of course,
of
course
it’s Reggie’s wife who exits through the stall.

She stands at the sink next to me, washing her hands.
“Reggie is so pleased to see you. He always gets such a kick out of running
into people from high school."

“Really?” I don’t attempt to keep the shock and doubt out of
my voice.

“Sure. He had a great time in high school; at least that’s
what he always told me. We’ve only been together for a year and a couple of
months. It was sort of whirl-wind romance, you know?” She giggles, and I can’t
hate her. It would make it easier if I could. But there’s nothing in her face
that reads as cynicism, she just hasn’t noticed the reality of whom she’s
married to.

“Did he ever mention me to you?”

She shakes her head and grins conspiratorially. “No. Why?
Did you used to date?”

“Uhm, no.”

She smiles at herself in the mirror and primps her hair.
It’s blonde and straight, cut in a pixie cut, which compliments her face with
its teeny little nose. Maybe I do hate her. “I wouldn’t be bothered if you had.
I know he was with a lot of women, especially before the wheel chair, but then
after too.” She looks away from her reflection, steps towards me, and lowers
her voice to a near whisper, even though we’re the only two people in the
bathroom. “The important parts still function down there, you know.” She raises
her voice back to its original tone, and stands up a little straighter. “It’s
amazing really. Like he just decided that being handicapped wasn’t going to
define him, or get him down.” She grabs a paper towel and wipes her hands.
“He’s really extraordinary. The best thing that ever happened to me.” She
throws her paper towel away and exits the bathroom.

Reggie Hanson is extraordinary? I refuse to accept it,
because if he is, what does that make me? I look in the mirror and I see a
thirty-three-year-old with frizzy hair, a splotchy face, and no sense of
direction. Maybe I’ve been living in denial for the last fifteen years. And for
the second time today, I know I have a job to do, but I have to force myself to
go do it.

Minutes later I bring Reggie and his wife their meals. “Can
I get you anything else?” I ask.

“I think we’re good,” Reggie says. He looks up at me and he
winks.

As I walk away from him, I contemplate the amount of time
I’ll likely be analyzing this wink. Is it for real? Does he actually like me
now? Does he not remember the hell he put me through? Is he a changed man, or
is this an act, an attempt in keeping his wife committed to the belief that
he’s a good guy?

I could say something. I could accuse him, right here, right
now, of all the awful things he did to me. I could throw his plate of food in
his face, cause a scene, and give him everything he deserves, but I don’t. I’m
better than that; I’ve moved on and it would serve no purpose. Yet part of me
knows that I just don’t want to be the lady who attacks a guy in a wheel chair.

I’m also incapable of playing dirty. Why can’t I be less
than what I am?

Suddenly I feel the tears build up behind my eyes, and I
know the floodgates are dangerously close to opening. Not here. Not now. No,
instead I rush to the office. I’m going to grab my purse. I’m going to find my
cell phone, and I’m going to call Drew and tell him I was wrong. I’ll say:
Take me back. I’m tired of trying too hard.
Let’s attempt this again, and now I promise to want you enough.

But when I enter the office I don’t grab my purse because
before I can, I see Jack and Petra, locked in an embrace. She has her hands on
his head, stroking his hair. He is wrapped around her middle, one hand resting
on her belly. Then he kisses her there. Like he’s kissing their future.

Huh. So Petra’s pregnant. They’ve been trying for a while.
Jack has wanted kids so much, and Petra finally decided she was ready.

To interrupt this private moment between them would be
criminal. I back away, and I go finish my evening of waiting tables.