The Sixteenth of June (18 page)

“Hmn. So you weren't surprised that he brought up the funeral?”

Leo pauses. That, actually, had taken him aback. “Well,” he says, hedging. He leans against the desk. The wheels of the chair suddenly give.

“Whoa!” Nora quickly stops the base of the chair with her foot and reaches out with her arms to grab him. “Easy there. You okay?”

“Yeah. Totally good. You were saying?”

Nora regards him. “I'm not drunk,” he wants to say, but he knows this will only make him sound drunker.

“It's not always so easy,” Nora says finally. “
You're
that way, and that's great. Maybe your dad's that way, too. But not everyone is.”

That pesky feeling is back, and Leo frowns to himself. My dad's open, he had told Nora. But what Stephen said about the nursing home didn't exactly fit with that.

“I've struggled with that part of it,” Nora says earnestly. “You know, it can be hard to talk about—about everything that's happened.”

Leo makes his automatic noise of sympathy.

They put her out there preemptively, Stephen had said. The same way Leo had tried puking. It wasn't a great solution.

Q. Why isn't that strategy effective?

A. Because sometimes misery comes and bites you in the ass anyway. And there's nothing you can do to prevent it.

Grandma Portman had suffered the pulmonary embolism in February. When Leo looked it up online at the time, he read about the causes. Inactivity was first on the list. Bed rest, long flights. He vowed to get up from his desk more at work.

But what if being at the nursing home had contributed? Her house in Brookline was always immaculate. The few times they went up to visit in years past, it was obvious she took great pride in it, every surface gleaming, different pots bubbling on the stove. Leo thinks of his beloved old skillet. What if it got sold without his permission? What if it and his apartment and his job and his car—his car!—all got taken away?

Maybe that house had been her heart, sustaining her. Maybe it gave her a sense of purpose after her children had left and her husband had died. Maybe you took away the heart and the blood stopped pumping.

“This'll be easier,” Dad had said in his reasonable voice. “And
nursing home
is a misnomer. It's a social living community for seniors.”

“Makes sense,” Leo had replied. He didn't doubt his dad for a second. Leo never stopped to think about whether it was what his grandmother wanted. He'd always assumed the embolism was inevitable, but what if that place had caused it? Maybe the clots were her accumulated misery, climbing the veins of her legs like the ink on Helen's skin.

“And it's the same with the wedding,” Nora comments.

“With the wedding?” Leo repeats, jarred into the present.

“Leo, were you even listening?”

“Of course I was. You just kind of threw me for a loop there, at the end.”

Nora regards him skeptically. She sighs. “Look, I just—I know this isn't what you want to hear right now. I know you're mad at Stephen. But, to be honest, it was sort of a relief to hear him say that stuff. It was nice to know that I haven't been forgotten. Because that's how it feels sometimes.”

He feels his anger stir. Forgotten? She is in his every thought.

“There's this constant pressure with the wedding,” she continues. “Stephen was right, in a way, that it's too much to think about right now.”

“The thing is, love,” he says, keeping his voice casual, “we don't actually think about it much anyway.”

“You see!” Nora pounces. “That's just it! That's exactly what I mean. You're always alluding to it, referring to how we aren't planning, aren't doing enough.”

“I wasn't complaining,” he interrupts. “I was just saying—I fail to see how I'm putting ‘constant pressure' on you.” Leo thinks of his clients. He thinks about how he tries to echo their language back to them.

But Nora is shaking her head, and with alarm he sees tears of frustration in her eyes. Ugh, Leo thinks. He wants to throw his hands in the air. For the second time today he has been ambushed. But he isn't allowed to express his own anger in these moments. The traffic guard eyes him, whistle at the ready, redirecting him with a winding arm.

“What is it, love?” he asks.

“You don't pressure me. I get that. But I can feel you
not
pressuring me. Does that make sense? When you know someone really well, you can tell when they aren't saying things. And I can feel you not talking about the wedding. I know it drives you nuts to not have a date—”

“But I've never said that! I've never—”

“I'm not saying you have. I'm not saying you complain. I'm talking about the stuff you don't say.”

Leo rests his head against the back of the desk. He presses against it, resisting the urge to bash his head into it. “Are we really having a fight about what I don't say?”

“Weren't you the one just talking about being open?”

“So what you're saying is that you want the wedding to go away?”

She eyes him and then bites her lip.

“You can say it,” he says tiredly.

“Yes,” she answers in a small voice.

“Say more about why.” He massages his temples.

“I don't want to feel like the delinquent, like I'm holding you back. I don't want the constant guilt of that. But I also don't think the planning should be filled with dread.”

He tries not to wince. “Dread?”

“Every time I try and think about it—and I have, Leo, really. But all of that stuff—invites and dresses and guests. It's just too much for me right now.”

“Okay.” Leo nods. The way to the daughter is through the mother, he thinks. The way to mother through daughter. And suddenly he sees it.

Q. What if things aren't going as expected?

A. Change your expectations.

“And what if I were to make that all go away? The two things you just talked about, the guilt and the dread. What if I were to make them vanish?”

“How?” She glances down at her ring, as if he might perform a trick with it. He feels like a chess master who has seen three moves ahead.

“Let me plan the wedding.”

“What?”

“Just hear me out a second. I think the issue here is that you're confusing the planning with the wedding.”

“What do you mean?”

“Plenty of people dread wedding planning.”

“But brides live for that stuff ! They have binders! Magazines!”

“Not all brides. Wedding planners exist for a reason.”

“For people who are busy,” Nora says dismissively. “Those people still enjoy it.”

“Says who? You're making assumptions.” He watches her face. “I've been unfair. I see it now. I've been trying to get you on board. But you're right. That's a lot of pressure. And why? You don't want to be thinking about that stuff. Listen, Nora, all those excited brides? I bet most of them have reluctant grooms. We've just swapped roles!”

She smiles a little despite herself. He is suddenly excited by this version of events. “
This
is what we haven't been saying,” he says eagerly. “You're absolutely right, Nora. There are things we haven't been saying. So let's just be open about all of it. You don't want to plan the wedding? Then don't! It makes total sense that you want nothing to do with it.”

“It does?”

“You've had a rough year. I know how hard it's been. I know that better than anyone. So why add this to your plate?”

Leo is aware of himself seated while Nora stands. He gazes up at her. There should be a chair when guys propose, he thinks. “Let me do this for you. Let me take care of it. It's the least I can do.”

She is quiet, looking off to the room beyond.

“You'll feel better knowing it's taken care of. I bet I could handle it in a weekend, make all the decisions. Then they'd be done. That way you know I'm not thinking about it. That way there's nothing between us.” He wipes his hands together as though getting rid of crumbs.

“But doesn't it bother you?”

“What?”

“That I don't want to be involved? Don't you
want
me to be involved?”

If Leo had a ring, he would present it now. “But that's just it. I don't want you to be anything other than what you are.” He knows it is a winning line, and Nora rewards him with softened eyes. She leans down and puts her arms around his neck.

“Is that a yes?” he says, smiling.

“Oh, Leo.”

“I get it, I get it. No pressure.” He thinks of the bartender and his ceremonious bow, tries to imagine some sort of gallant gesture. All he can think to do is to pat his lap.

She sits obediently but perches on his knee, looking distracted. He puts his hand on the small of her back to steady her and is aware, dimly, of his desire. If he plays his cards right, he might be able to close the alcove door. And why not? He thinks of the lilac garden. How long had it been since they'd felt passion like that? Christ, how long had it been at all? He imagines reaching across her body and sliding the pocket door shut. He imagines their bodies intertwined while the party continued, just feet away.

He touches Nora's leg, tracing circles across her knee.

At work, he feels vastly superior to Dave, takes pride in being more responsible, more on the ball. But some part of him cringes at the thought of Dave having diagnosed him so accurately. Whipped? Yes. Getting any? No.

Leo brings his hand up to Nora's face, touches her jaw. But his hand makes momentary contact with her hair and she freezes. She follows his gaze to the doorframe, to the crowd, as though she can sense his thoughts. There was a time when she would have been game.

“Maybe what you say is true,” she concedes.

“Maybe?” he asks hopefully.

“I just don't want to feel rushed.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Just think about it, okay? Sometimes it's hard to see past the moment you're in. Sometimes you need someone to help you through it, to lead you to the other side.”

“I know.”

“Don't read into the wedding-planning stuff. You think about these things too much.”

“I know.” She smiles.

“We'll figure it all out.” His hand returns to her knee and he hopes she will embrace him again. He starts to slide his hand up her thigh, but she abruptly stands.

“We should get back to the party.” She nods at the room.

To have sealed the deal, he thinks regretfully, watching as she tugs at her dress. Oh, to have sealed the deal, with the whole party right outside. Then they would have rejoined the room, hand in hand, smiling at each other. They would have looked at each other, feeling assured. Because that is why sex matters, to give you the feeling of a secret you share with someone else.

Leo frowns, the word catching in his thoughts. But surely this is a different kind of secret, a
good
kind of secret. He picks up a champagne glass from the desk and drains it.

“We all have secrets,” Nora had said. She had stated it in that voice of hers, obstinate and clear. Maybe she was right. Maybe being open was an illusion. His father, it turned out, hadn't been so forthright with them. Even if Stephen was exaggerating about their grandmother's unhappiness, in truth their dad had never said a word about what she wanted.

During the toast, Leo became aware of the loss of his grandmother for the first time. “She wanted what we wanted,” his dad said, and Leo felt sudden moisture in his eyes. “She was a lot like you,” Stephen had told him. Leo had never thought of Grandma Portman that way. He never imagined the two of them having anything in common. But what if she truly was like him? What if she had sacrificed everything for her kids, only to end up alone? The thought made Leo want to weep.

He wants to catch Nora's hand and ask her, “Do you think she was miserable? Did Stephen tell you that, too?” He suddenly wants to ask Nora a hundred questions. “That thing you said about secrets. What did you mean?”

He finds he wants to tell her things, too. “I wanted to do you in that chair, just like that time, your old apartment.” Would she remember now? Would she look at him disgustedly? “I wanted to cry during my dad's toast because it all seems so sad.” Would she understand? Maybe they were all seeking the same assurance but in different ways. Maybe they all wanted to close that alcove door and just do different things behind it.

He wishes he could ask Nora what it feels like when she pulls. “Is it like sex? Not orgasmic, but like that feeling after?” His mind searches for the description. That feeling like you can finally breathe. That you know something deep down, have been reminded of something primal. Is that how it feels? Like a release? And Stephen, with his trips to the home—could it be that he felt something like that, too?

Maybe they were all trying to escape, but in different ways. Maybe it was okay to escape if you returned to one another recharged.

But Nora is leading him out into the party, and he can't stop to ask her. She looks back at him, over her shoulder. She has her party face back on, ready to rejoin the crowd. “I'm going to talk to your dad. I haven't really had a chance yet.”

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Give what I said some thought.”

“I will.”

He watches her walk away, letting go of her hand, her petite frame in that white-and-green dress. Her body is compact in a certain way, athletic.

The game! He remembers it and glances at his watch. A few minutes after eleven. He might be able to catch the tail end. His heart skips.

He retreats from Nora, backing away from her as if he has hit a three-pointer. He slides the door to the den open, then closes it behind him. He reaches for the remote.

Detroit leads by twenty points, 99–79, with less than two minutes on the clock. Leopold feels tremendous. This is the moment he's been hoping for all day, convinced he would have to sacrifice it.