November Surprise (20 page)

“Fine!” Jack raises his voice, which is very
out-of-character for him, and gets up. He rests against the same window I was
looking out of several days ago, during my fight with Monty. “But tell me that
I’m wrong. I think there’s a part of you that still thinks you’re in high
school, and Monty’s this god, and you’re an outcast, and you can’t accept how
much you both have changed.”

As Jack says this I study my feet, in their old sneakers
with their fraying laces. I look up when he’s done, and I meet his eyes. “I’m
not as insecure as you think.”

“Well, good. Because Monty’s less secure than you think, and
I’m telling you right now, it’s got to be you who contacts him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s his birthday,” Jack says. “And you reach out
to people on their birthday.” He stands up and prepares to leave. “We’re going
out to dinner to celebrate.”

The lump that was in my throat instantly reforms. For a
moment I desperately want to come with him. Then I remember. Monty didn’t tell
me about his engagement. He said none of this was his choice. I heave a sigh.
“Tell him I said happy birthday.”

“Tell him yourself. You’re coming with me.”

“No.”

Jack places his hands on his hips in defiance. “Have you
forgotten all the reasons I have to be mad at you? You owe me, Lucy.”

I run my hand through my tangled, dirty hair. I look down at
my stomach. I’m at that stage where I don’t look pregnant, but I do look fat.
There’s no way I can go.

Jack gazes at me and reads my insecurities. “Trust me. It
will be fine. Just wish him happy birthday, then if you want to leave, leave.”

He makes it sound like the simplest thing in the world.
Maybe if I pretend he’s right, it will be. “And if I do that, you and I are
good?”

“Yeah.”

How can I say no when I want so
badly to say yes? “Okay. Let me just comb my hair, and we’ll go.”

After I’ve combed my hair, brushed my teeth, changed my
shirt, washed my face, and applied a light coat of mascara and lipstick, Jack
finally shoves me through the door. They planned on meeting at a restaurant not
far from my house, so we walk.

“I’m not sure about this,” I say on our trek over.

“I told him I’d try and get you to come, so he’s sort of
expecting you. It’s why we’re meeting so close to your place.”

As we walk up to the restaurant I see Monty, standing
outside among the other people waiting for a table. My heart jumps and swells
inside my chest and I have to remember how to breathe. He’s leaning against the
outside wall, texting. He looks good, not at all a mess like I am. He’s wearing
his work clothes and he must have gotten a haircut.

A haircut, seriously? How dare he do something so indulgent,
when for the past few days I’ve been miserable. Who was he trying to look good
for? And who is texting? Probably some tall, large-breasted, twenty-five
year-old who works in his office. I bet she doesn’t get tired and crabby by
8:00 p.m., and she probably hangs on every word he says.

I realize this is a big mistake, and my impulse is to turn
tail and run.

Then he looks up from his phone, and our gazes lock. I feel
like a deer in the headlights, and my throat grips up tight.

He walks toward me. “So Jack convinced you to eat dinner
with us?”

Jack is standing off to my side, and I’m only sort of aware
of him and the other people who are around us. It’s like Monty is 99% of the
people in the world, and everyone else makes up the difference.

“I just came to wish you happy birthday.”

He taps his fingers against his arm. “That’s all?”

No. There’s a whole lot more that I came for, but I don’t
know how to say it. I’m weighing whether or not I should try, when he steps in
close to me, and caresses my cheek. Looking into his eyes, I can see now that
he’s on the verge of crying. So maybe he’s more of a mess than I thought. But
I’m already crying, so he can’t be as big of a mess as me.

I’m breathing hard, and so is he, and for a moment that’s
enough. Nothing else needs to be said.

He breaks the silence. “I’m sorry about what I said. I do
choose you, Lucy.” He kisses the space right below my left ear. “I just think
we should talk more.”

I nod as my chin rests in his hand. “You might not like
everything I have to say.”

He leans down closer and touches his forehead to mine. “I
can handle it, as long as you stay. Stay for dinner?”

I’m shaking as I put my arms around his shoulders. He puts
his hands on my waist, and pulls me in for a kiss. His mouth is warm and
achingly familiar, like oxygen. I’m certain that the world could explode right
now, and I’d stay grounded as long as he doesn’t let go of me.

After a couple of moments we pull away, aware that we’re
standing outside a busy restaurant, but he keeps his arms around me and buries
his head in the nook of my shoulder. He inhales like his life depends on it,
breathing in the smell of my hair and skin.

“I’ll stay for dinner,” I whisper.

Monty raises his head and loosens his grip around my waist,
but as he does so his fingers lightly brush my protruding belly. “Good. Thank
you.”

Jack approaches, and puts his arms around us both. “Group
hug!”

Monty shrugs off his embrace. “Do you want to get hit?” He
says this, but he’s smiling.

“Hey, be nice. I brought you what you really wanted, so you
can lighten up a little.” Jack addresses me. “Monty can be a real asshole when
he's heartbroken.”

Monty keeps an arm around me and shakes his head. “Jack,
you’d better not bring up that stupid saxophone story again…”

Jack ignores him and speaks to me. “I was in the eighth
grade, and Monty was in tenth. Danielle Holly said she’d go to the Snowball
dance with him, but she dumped him for an eleventh grader.”

“Oh God,” Monty sighs. “Get over your stupid sax.”

I look back and forth between them, trying to follow their
fraternal dialogue. “You destroyed it!” Jack waves an accusatory finger at him.
“I couldn’t do my solo in the concert!”

Monty grips my arm, urgently defending himself. “He played
that goddamned solo over and over and over for three weeks, practicing. It was
'Joy to the World.' I couldn’t take it any more, and I had warned him…”

Jack grabs my other arm, making me the center of their tug
of war. “After Danielle broke up with him, Monty seized my saxophone, took it
down to the basement, and pounded it with Dad’s sledge hammer...”

“And I apologized repeatedly. And I bought you a new
saxophone.”

“Only because Mom made you.”

“Yeah, well, she always liked you best.”

The hostess stands in the doorway and calls out, “Bricker!
Party of three?”

“That’s us.” Monty smiles and
squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go eat.”

By the end of the month it’s clear that Sarah Palin will
survive as McCain’s VP. There may be tons of people who hate her inability to
form a coherent sentence, but there are tons more who love her vivaciousness
and the energy she brings to the campaign. I guess for McCain, the pros
outweigh the cons, so he’s holding on. But I’m not convinced. Monty and I are
giddy when we watch Katie Couric interview Palin and we shake our heads at her
vacant, rambling answers.

Later, we relax on the couch, and interview each other about
the demons we’ve been too frightened to bring up until now.

“All my life I’ve worked so hard at trying to make everything
look easy,” he says. “Good grades, finishing college in three years, getting
ahead—I never wanted anyone to know how much it cost me.”

“What
did
it cost
you?” I ask.

“Several relationships. Each time, they’d tell me they felt
neglected. Then I met Evelyn, and she understood.” Monty’s head is resting in
my lap. I stroke his forehead. “So when she suggested we drop everything and
move to Africa, I said sure. But have you ever held onto something really
tight, simply because you’re afraid of letting go?”

I run my fingers through his hair. “I suppose.”

He looks up into my eyes. “That’s what it was like with
Evelyn. I was always afraid she was going to leave. And once she was gone, I
couldn’t even remember how we got to that point.”

“Must have been hard,” I say.

“Meanwhile, I remember everything with you. Like that time
you came for dinner, and you told my dad he shouldn’t have voted for Reagan.
Your hair was all frizzy, and Jack was so uncomfortable, and I’m thinking, ‘who
is this girl?’”

I chuckle. “That was when you first noticed me?”

“The first time, definitely not the last. And I never really
forgot. To tell you the truth, one of the reasons I first considered taking the
job out here was because of you.”

I let this statement sink in. It’s incredibly sweet, but is
he for real? Is it possible that our entire history is different than I
thought, that the lipstick wasn’t necessary, wasn’t even on a pig in the first
place? Maybe we’re way more than that. “I can’t imagine ever leaving you.” I
whisper and I’m shocked by my own candor.

“Good,” he responds, “because I don’t know what I’d do if
you did. If I take you for granted, it’s because all I can think about when
we’re together is how happy I am.”

I clasp one of his hands and bring it to my lips. For the
last few evenings, mostly what we’ve done is talk. I’ve been trying to set my
fear aside, and talk about the difficult stuff as if I was a shamed politician
doing a tell-all expose’.

“I really am excited about the baby, you know.” He smiles up
at me. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” I look around my apartment, with its large windows,
pale yellow walls, and white shelving. When I first moved in, I thought it was
perfect, so bright and cheery. I couldn’t imagine ever being sad here. But now,
I have no idea how it can possibly be enough. “I am excited about the baby. I
just don’t know where we’re going to put it.”

Monty sits up. “Wow,” he says. “It’s funny you should
mention that.”

He gets up and grabs a flier from his briefcase.

“I went for a walk during lunch today, and I found this.” He
hands me the sheet of paper, and it’s from one of those boxes that are outside
of homes for sale. “Severe Price Reduction!” It says this in bold, large
letters at the top of the page. Below is information about the home: 2,845
square feet, three bedrooms, two baths, built in 1964. There are also pictures.
It looks like it gets lots of light, and the dining room has a sliding glass
door that leads out to a deck. There’s also a yard with a garden, and a round
stone patio with a fire pit in the center. Inside there’s a large kitchen with
white cabinets, and upstairs there is a fireplace in the master bedroom. One of
the other bedrooms is painted a light, sunny yellow, and it looks like the
perfect size for a nursery.

“There’s no ocean view or anything, and it probably needs
work. But still—pictures don’t lie. It looks beautiful. I think we should
call and request a showing.”

I look from the flier to Monty’s face. I don’t know how to
respond.

He cocks his to the side and gives me a questioning look. “Don’t
you think it would be worth it to check it out? It’s because of the tanking
economy that it’s so cheap. Maybe we can actually benefit from this as
first-time buyers.”

“I didn’t know we were actually buying,” I say, trying to
sound casual.

“I thought we decided to keep all our options open.”

I shrug my shoulders so it doesn’t look like I’m panicking.
“Buying a house just seems like an awfully big step.”

He laughs. “We’re having a baby. It’s too late to worry
about ‘big steps’.”

“Yeah, I suppose…” I start to rub my temples. It’s not that
I’m afraid of committing to Monty. But having a baby is just one way that we’re
doing things out of order. Buying a house will make it two. We haven’t
mentioned marriage since that time he winked at me, and that’s okay. I’m in no
rush to get married. But a house? It feels like we should sign a marriage
certificate before we sign a mortgage.

Monty takes the flier back and studies it. “I have a good
feeling about this place. The outside is really pretty, with a vine-covered
trellis over the walkway leading to the front door. It just felt like a home,
you know?” I place my hand on his back and gently rub as an answer. “There’s no
harm in just looking, right?” As he says this, he reaches into his pocket for
his cell phone. “How about tomorrow evening, after work?”

“Sure,” I say, because I’m not up for a fight. Monty calls
and schedules a showing.

I feel the baby moving inside me, and I rub my belly. Sarah
Palin can see Russia from her house. I wonder what new portion of the world
I’ll be able to see from mine.

 
“…And not only
is he not a plumber, his name isn’t even Joe!”

“You’ve already told me that a couple of times, Lucy.”

“I know, and I know you don’t think it’s any big deal. But
people are going crazy over this guy. He’s so far right, he’s almost to the
left, like he’s a libertarian or something. And he’s spurred something. There’s
this whole group of people who want to do away with government altogether. It’s
becoming a movement.”

Monty flicks his turn signal and hangs a left. The houses
gain color and personality the further down the street we drive. On our right
there’s a park with a large slide, picnic shelters, and a wading pool. Two
blocks down there’s a coffee shop, a book store, a tapas restaurant, and one of
those new, designer baby gear boutiques. Monty was spot-on when he said we’re
the right demographic for this neighborhood.

“You can’t be surprised,” Monty says. “There’s always a
segment of people who feel disenfranchised by the government. It’s been that
way since we began, back in the 1700s.”

“But they’re so vocal now,” I reply.

“Only because things are about to change in a big way.” He
rolls his shoulders back, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly which muscle it is
he’s trying to relax. “But I wouldn’t worry. Joe the Plumber was McCain’s
attempt at an October surprise. He’s making a last ditch attempt to turn things
around, and it isn’t going to work.”