The Sixteenth of June (19 page)

He settles onto the sectional. Detroit will win, he suddenly knows. Anything can happen in two minutes, but this game belongs to them. It has been theirs all along.

It feels so good to give in to this, to do what he wants. It is exhausting to accommodate others all the time. No one wants him to be in here, away from the party, which is why it feels so good to be doing it.

So maybe I do know, he thinks, turning up the volume. Maybe I do know about secrets after all.

Eighteen

N
ora waits for Michael to finish chatting with his guests. He makes eye contact through the group to let her know he sees her there. Nora squirms. She tries to stop her thoughts from turning flirty with Michael, but it isn't always easy. His eyes do their twinkling best, making you feel as if there were no one else in the world. When the circle of guests finally breaks apart, Nora feels a slight flutter in her stomach.

“What a day.” Michael shakes his head. “I've barely gotten to talk with you.”

“You're in high demand.” She wonders briefly if Michael has ever been on the other side of things, waiting to catch someone's eye. Had he ever stood outside June's dorm at Smith hoping to get a minute alone with her? It is difficult to picture. Michael seemed as if he never waited for others but merely smiled as everyone came to him. “I wanted to tell you—that toast was beautiful.”

“Thank you, Nora. It's kind of you to say.”

“Everyone was moved. I'm sure it wasn't easy.”

“Yes, well. I wanted to say something without being superficial. I can't pretend this day has been a normal one.”

“Of course. It's just—it's so tempting to let a moment like that get the better of you. To get up there and pretend, or worry about it being a party, or what everyone will think.”

“We all have our different ways of coping. Who's to say that one way is better?” He nods at someone in passing. “Some people are more private than others. Stephen, for example.” Michael's eyes return to hers. “Stephen would never air his grievances in a toast. He no doubt has opinions
about the fact that I did. But that's fine. June and I always vowed to let our kids be their own way. With grief especially, all bets are off.”

“You're already handling it more gracefully than me,” Nora says with a self-conscious laugh. “It's been almost a year now. There's no way I could get up there and do what you did.” She can still barely say the words to herself. As if shrinking away from what happened makes it hurt any less.

“But this is what I mean, Nora. Let's not forget that I'm twice your age. My mother led a long, full life. To lose your mom so young—that is a different thing entirely.”

Nora looks away. Yes, it is a different thing. But this sort of pep talk ends up making her feel like the slow kid in class. Take your time, they tell her. What else can you say to someone who is lagging? If only she could find Michael's calm reserve. Two days later and he is in full control, philosophizing before a room. And how is it that, once again, a conversation intended for the one in mourning has become about her?

He seems to sense her thoughts. “You've been dealing with so much for so long, Nora. I remember my college roommate, when his mother passed—Have I told you this story already?”

She shakes her head.

“Our sophomore year. It was sudden, a car accident. One day there was a knock on the door, the dean.” Michael waves his hand. “The craziest part is that he was back on Monday. My roommate, I mean. He left for the weekend to attend his mother's funeral, and then he was back, going to classes, continuing as though nothing had happened.”

Nora pictures Michael at Harvard, traipsing through the snow in a wool toggle coat, his head bent against the cold.

“Things were so different then. There was a timeline laid out for you that no one thought to question. I don't think it even occurred to him to take time off—a semester, a year. As if that would have put everything in jeopardy! Maybe how he reacted seems noble, at a glance. But in hindsight, it's absurd. Why should he have rushed back? Why should anyone so young feel so much pressure?”

Nora opens her mouth, about to reply, but has the sudden impression that Michael wasn't talking about his roommate at all.

“But here I am, rambling. No fool like an old fool.” He smiles at her. “I should return to my hosting duties before I get into trouble.” His eyes give a final twinkle. “If you'll excuse me, Nora.”

She smiles in return, watching as he moves on, the hall crowded with bodies. The people in the house seem to have multiplied, no longer murmuring and contained but more expansive. People take up more room when they're drunk.

And he had done it, she realizes suddenly. She nearly laughs out loud. What was the line from the magazine?
Chat with each guest for ten minutes before excusing yourself
. It was textbook.

But you didn't detect it with Michael. You didn't feel your cheeks grow stiff with a fake smile while pitying him for trying to make conversation. You felt as if a warm light had been directed at you, and you felt bathed in its glow. They'd only spoken for a few minutes, but the conversation had been meaningful.

The story about the roommate—Nora pauses, mulling it over. It was as if he had known about Leo's conversation with her in the alcove. Were secret cameras recording them? Nora gives a little shudder. She imagines June watching the videotape of her trying on her shoes. She imagines Michael listening to her conversation with Leo and frowning.

But she is being ridiculous. Her emotions aren't that hard to read. Even to outsiders, it was probably abundantly clear that the wedding planning has been delayed, that circumstances aren't normal. Nora wonders for a moment if there really was a roommate. Had the story been dialed up for her benefit? She looks at Michael, talking and laughing with yet another guest, his hand gesturing in midair. A storyteller, she thinks, watching him. After all, Michael sold stories for a living.

“Tipsy and happy?” a voice asks.

She looks up and sees Stephen holding two glasses of champagne.

“Do I look tipsy?”

“You look happy.”

How many glasses has she had now? Three? Four? “I feel immune to the effects of alcohol.” Stephen laughs. Certainly, she is in better shape than Leo. “Maybe I'm a glass of champagne after all.”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “That whole thing was designed as a compliment. If only you knew how to take one.”

“I was just complimenting your dad on his toast.”

Stephen makes a face.

“What? You didn't like it?”

“Don't get me started.”

“Stephen! What on earth could you have found wrong with that toast? It was—”

“Compelling? Poignant? Did it touch you, Nora?”

“Oh, stop.” She swats at him. “Seriously, what didn't you like about it?”

“Well, there was the whole life-imitating-art motif, for starters. ‘Oh, look at us, a hundred years later, acting out
Ulysses
.' And then that line, written down on an index card, which suggests a kind of premeditation that's highly disturbing.”

“Because his toast should've been spontaneous?”

“Because rather than thinking about his mother, or writing a eulogy, he was planning that speech. I can just picture him, rehearsing it upstairs, looking up lines.”

Nora hadn't thought about this, but it is true. If Michael wanted to publicly acknowledge his mother, why not do it at the synagogue?

“You'll notice, by the way, that the line he cited came from the very beginning of the book.”

I know, I know, Nora thinks. No one has actually read it. “I think part of that toast was aimed at you,” she says instead. “I think he wanted to show you that he cares.”

Stephen looks off, his jaw clenched. Biting his tongue again. She imagines how Michael's words would sound to him. “A full life,” Michael had told her. She realizes that Stephen probably doesn't feel that way at all. To Stephen, Grandma Portman had surely gone too soon.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He gestures with his chin in the direction of the street. “Get some air?”

“Sure. It's warm in here, actually.”

“Crowds will do that.”

“Your mom lowers the thermostat for parties, did you know that?”

“She does?” He laughs. “June.” He shakes his head.

“June,” she concurs.

He touches her lightly at the elbow and leads the way down the hall. They have to walk single file down the stairs, passing a guest or two, then they push their way through the door. Nora is surprised by the cool that greets them. It isn't chilly out, but the air feels lighter, easier. She breathes. “What a lovely night.”

“Do you remember,” he says, “that night we got high?”

She smiles. “Up by the windows, you mean?”

“I was thinking about it earlier.”

“God, I can't believe we did that. I probably killed a vocal cord. And right under your parents' noses!”

“Oh, they wouldn't have cared. You could shoot up in front of my parents and they'd be fine.”

“As long as you cleaned up after.”

Stephen smiles.

Nora remembers how they had leaned out the windows and muffled their laughter, the street and the trees suddenly hysterically funny. “Everything was so different back then. If you'd told me then that one day they'd be my in-laws . . .”

“What would you have said?”

“At the time? God, I probably would've had a heart attack just thinking about it. Here.” She pats the stoop and they sit on the top stair, the party at their backs. Nora sets her champagne flute down and remembers the men on Spruce earlier. Who's drinking on the steps now?

“That feels like it was ages ago,” Stephen remarks.

I miss it, she thinks. Not that everything was perfect, but nothing had happened yet.

She remembers crossing Rittenhouse Square with Stephen one afternoon, watching the light cast shadows through the park. They were on their way to Delancey—the house, in its splendor, still new to her. She remembers wanting so much to be a part of its world. How glamorous they had seemed. She senses him looking at her and turns, but his gaze drops.

“What?”

“Hmn?”

“You were looking at me.”

“I wasn't.” His long fingers touch the step beneath them. “June wants to redo this stoop, you know. Her next big project. Gold-plated concrete is probably all the rage.” He looks up at the dark sky.

“You were, though,” she insists. “You were going to say something.”

He remains silent.

She sighs. “Let me guess. Leo is a moron. I'll waddle down the aisle in some lace monstrosity and will have to suffer bad music on what should be my day.”

His face softens.

“I'll have kids and be swallowed into obscurity. As opposed to my current life of glamour.”

“I was thinking no such thing. Do you really think I'm that judgmental?”

“I do.”

He shoots her a look. “I've been thinking about taking a leave of absence,” he says abruptly.

“A leave of absence?”

“London. Maybe New York. A change of scene. You know, it occurred to me—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. London?”

“Maybe New York.”

“Where is this coming from? You've never said a word about this.”

Stephen looks away. She feels it, then, how much he's been keeping from her. She wonders how long his jaw has been set like that, his words held back. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I don't know,” he says absently. “A day? A year? I've been feeling a little bit stuck recently. Everyone is headed somewhere. And I've been in the same place for, what, seven years now?” Stephen pauses, shakes his head. “Seven years! I mix them up sometimes, thinking it's only my fifth or sixth, that it can't really be that long. They start to blur together.”

“I know something about feeling stuck. I don't know that running to London is the answer.”

“Maybe New York. And I wouldn't be running. It just dawned on me that I don't need to be in Philly to write my dissertation.”

“But why? You'd be away from everything you know.”

“That's sort of the point of travel, I think.”

Nora looks at him, tasting panic. “Is this because of your grandmother? You—you feel like you need space?” She watches him as he collects his thoughts. “You can't leave,” she wants to say. She tries to think of how to say it lightly, the way Stephen would, but she knows the worry will leak through her voice.

“My grandmother used to laugh at me for not seeing the choices I have. There she was, locked up in a nursing home, and I was the one complaining? She encouraged me to think about what I want. ‘Whatever it is your heart craves, Stephen,' she said. ‘That's what you should do.' But that's the tough part, right? Figuring out what you want? It's harder than it should be.

“And I have doubts. About everything. I don't know that the program is right for me, that I really want to be an academic. Don't ask me what else I would do.” He throws her a warning look. “My thinking hasn't gotten that far. But I can't help but feel that I'm not going to figure it out here.”

“But, Stephen—” she sputters.

He waits for her to say something.

“I just—I had no idea—” She feels herself floundering, and he looks away. She has made everything about her. All those times she fled to Union or ignored his voice mails, all the times when her needs trumped his. She had expected him to understand, even when she got engaged to Leo.

“I mean, it's great, if that's what you want.” She tries to sound supportive. “If you think it will help.” She can feel Stephen watching her. “Oh, who am I kidding? This sucks, Stephen.”

He smiles and looks out across the street. A streetlamp illuminates his profile and he looks boyish, vulnerable. “I think I chose Penn, in part, because I figured you'd end up here. I mean, it's not like I was fighting off programs with a stick.”

But you were, she remembers. Columbia, Hopkins, Stanford. “I've already done New York,” he had said at the time. “And who wants to live in Palo Alto or Baltimore? Besides, the chair at Penn is Stuart White. He's brilliant.”

“You and Leo were already pretty serious. I had this idea of it being like that summer—you know, where all of us were together. It sounds so silly now.”