Where You Are (29 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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Chapter 39
Andrew
 
I lean back in my desk chair and close my eyes. God, I'm tired.
Robert and I stayed out later than we'd planned—ten o'clock, not that late—but when I got home, Maya ripped into me for not calling and for standing up my daughter.
“You know,” she'd said angrily, “your daughter likes routine. And she was expecting you to read to her tonight.” I felt like I was in high school again being scolded by my parents for missing curfew. She wanted to know where I'd been. I told her, “Out with a friend.” She didn't seem to like that answer very much.
When the bell rings, I start, then rub my eyes and get to my feet. The kids start trickling in. I'm just finishing writing the day's objectives on the board when Stephen shows up . . . on time. And the real kicker, he actually acts human. And do I detect a small measure of contrition?
I allow myself a moment of pride at my eloquent presentation of the situation yesterday and the subsequent taking down a peg of one Stephen Newman.
The kids have a quiz today. After we go over homework, I pass out the quizzes and instruct the kids to place them in a basket on my desk when they're done and get started on tonight's homework.
I park on the stool in front of the classroom to monitor, but I'm foggy-brained, and at least once I almost lose my balance and tumble off the stool. I need caffeine, and I need it badly. But there's no leaving the room.
The first kid to finish is one of the girls—Safina Ahmad. She drops her quiz in the basket and catches my eye. I motion to her. “Would you do me a big favor?” I ask quietly. “Would you take this cup to the teachers' lounge at the end of the hall and fill it with coffee?”
“Sure.” She takes the cup.
“And there are some little containers of cream and some sugar packets. Would you bring me a couple of each?”
She smiles and quietly lets herself out of the room. Not only is Safina bright as hell and poorly placed in this class, but she's one of those kids who loves to help out her teachers. And she's one I can trust to go into the teachers' lounge and not get into some mischief on the way.
When Safina gets back, I mouth a thank you and give her a wink, then set the cup on my stool to add cream and sugar.
The kids are starting to finish in larger numbers now. Two and three at a time are at my desk. I notice that Stephen is still working. No doubt he's just doodling since he hasn't done any homework on this unit and has wasted every class period. But he's not acting like a jerk. I take that to mean that his dad gave him the
what for
after our meeting, and I wouldn't be having any more trouble from him. Maybe after this quiz I can get him back on track and help him salvage what's left of the school year. In high school, kids should be using summer school to get ahead, not to recover credits. Even an immature little brat like Stephen Newman.
In the back corner of the room, I see Tyler Hicks stretching his scrawny self in his seat to see over Izzy Garcia's shoulder. I'm pretty sure that's not going to do him much good. I clear my throat and he darts a look at me, then hunches over his quiz again. I keep my eye on them until Izzy turns in her quiz.
That's when I see the note being passed hand to hand. I consider letting it go, but I figure I'm on a roll, so I might as well ride this baby as long as I can. I pick up the note and make a big show of dropping it in the trash unread.
Another quiz, second period, practically puts me in a coma, despite the coffee. By third-period conference, I have to move around.
I grab some more coffee, check my mailbox, stop by the attendance office to sign a few forms, then just to keep busy stop by the library to check out some picture books for Kiki. The librarian, Ms. Wetzel, purchases them for teachers in English classes to use in teaching literary elements.
She pulls a couple of new ones from her not-yet-available-for-checkout shelf and checks them out to me because, she says, I'm
too cute for words
. She's about eighty. She talks to me like I'm eight. Sometimes I think she thinks I'm checking out the picture books for myself.
On my way back to my classroom, I reach for my phone to check the time. It's not in my pocket. I try to remember when I last had it, but I just don't know. Sometimes I place it on my desk during class, so I check there first, under papers, around my computer, in my desk drawers, under my desk. Then I resign myself to retracing my steps. Lounge, mailboxes, attendance, library.
No phone.
In the few minutes I have before fourth period, I go out to the parking lot and check my car. Nothing. That's just great. I probably left it at home this morning. I'm going to feel naked all day without it.
And I do. Countless times I reach for it, and then remember it's not there. I even call myself from my classroom phone. Nada.
During fourth, I pull a book from my shelves—a biography of Galileo—and tuck a note inside, leaving about a quarter inch exposed:
Phone missing. Don't text. Will call later.
On the outside I attach a Post-it:
Robert Westfall.
Then I look up Robert's schedule and add
Room 242
. Out of an abundance of caution, I put a rubber band around the book, then shanghai the first kid to finish the quiz, Annie Dunn.
“Would you take this to Robert Westfall, room 242. He left it in my classroom this morning.”
When Robert comes into class sixth, he waves the book at me. “Thanks for returning my book, Mr. Mac.”
“You're welcome, Mr. Westfall.”
 
I search everywhere when I get home for that damn phone, but it's just gone. I use Maya's phone to call myself. Nothing.
It is beyond frustrating to lose a phone. Do I wait and keep looking? Or do I just drop another couple hundred dollars or so that I don't have and buy a new one? I decide to wait until Saturday morning at least.
When Maya takes a bubble bath that evening, I borrow her phone and call Robert.
“Hello? Ms. Momin?”
“Not Ms. Momin.”
He laughs. “I didn't think so. Still no phone?”
“Nope. If it doesn't show up by tomorrow morning, I'm going to have to buy a new one. In the meantime, though, we have some plans to make. And we have about ten minutes to make them.”
I hate hanging up when I hear Maya pull the drain on the tub because I know there will be no communicating with him until tomorrow. I delete the call dialed and replace the phone exactly as I found it.
 
By two o'clock Saturday afternoon, I've got a new phone, disabled the SIM card on the previous one, and downloaded all my contacts. It costs me almost two hundred dollars for a similar refurbished phone since my contract isn't up for renewal yet. I don't carry insurance, because I don't lose my phones.
Maya is vacuuming when I get home, and Kiki is napping in a pile of clean laundry on the couch. I move her to a cozy, oversize chair and sit on the couch to fold. Maya turns off the vacuum cleaner. “Did you get a phone?”
“Yep. What a pain.”
“Hey, Doug is out of town. How about I rent a movie from Redbox and we have a pajama party tonight?”
“Wow. Sounds like fun, but I'm going out tonight. In fact, I'm leaving about five.”
“A date?”
“Yeah.”
“What time are you going to be home?”
I'm folding a towel. I make a trifold the way Maya likes it and set it on the back of the couch. “I'm not going to be home tonight, Maya.”
I pick up another towel and focus on making neat, tight folds.
“Are you staying at his place?”
I don't particularly like her tone. I am not a child. I do not need her permission or approval. I don't answer. Maybe that's what sets her off.
She snaps the vacuum handle in the upright position and storms out of the room, but just as she reaches the hallway, she turns back. “Why is he texting your phone?”
Goddamnshitmotherfucker
. She
was
in my room. She looked at my phone. Hell, for all I know, she took my phone. I am livid. No, I am beyond livid, but I force my face to remain neutral, or if not neutral, at least confused and maybe a little indignant. I'm not sure how well I'm accomplishing any of those.
“What are you talking about, Maya? And what's with all the questions? Weren't you the one who insisted we were still going to have our own lives? I think your actual words were, ‘You can still date. Go dancing. Bring a guy over for dinner.' So what was that? Just some kind of bullshit to get me back in the house again?” I pick up another towel and wad it up. “Well, I'm back, but I'm not too damn happy about it right now.”
I get to my feet and fling the towel at the couch. “I'll be back tomorrow, early afternoon. I'll take Kiki to the lake to feed the ducks, and you can have the afternoon to yourself. Okay?”
She says, “Okay,” but she doesn't mean okay. She makes me feel like I'm committing adultery. Like I'm committing statutory rape.
We avoid each other for the next few hours. It's a relief to zip up my small duffel bag and kiss my daughter good-bye at five.
“I hope you have a good time,” Maya says, but her tone sounds more like she hopes I get a disease and die. As I pick up my duffel bag, I make a decision. On Monday, I'm going to look for an apartment. We're better friends when we're apart. When we're together, it's just toxic. And I don't want to have to drive an hour to spend a night with my boyfriend again.
She recognized his number.
Fuck.
 
Robert
 
I tell Mom I'm spending the night at Luke's. She just tells me to keep my cell phone on and have a good time.
Chapter 40
Andrew
 
It's hard to stay in a bad mood when Robert's dancing dirty hip-hop on the bed in my striped dress shirt and nothing else, and singing, “Shawty had them Apple Bottom jeans, jeans . . .” It's cute and damn sexy.
It's his way of making me forget about my fight with Maya.
It's working pretty well.
There'll be time to deal with Maya tomorrow.
The bed is not nearly firm enough, but he manages the ball changes and turns easily enough. The spins and the slides are a little tricky, though. So when he attempts a three-sixty spin, his feet get tangled in the bedspread and it's more of a stumble, but he catches himself. I pull him down to me before he can do it again.
“I think you forgot your pants,” I say, running my hand up his thigh and over his ass.
He looks down like this is news and gasps. “I'm naked,” he mouths, pointing down.
“I know,” I mouth back. “You know,” I say, taking full advantage of said nakedness, “the next time you dance on a bed, it'll be mine.”
He flicks his eyebrows at me. His smile lingers a moment longer, then morphs into something more serious. “I brought condoms.”
“You did?” His comment has taken me by surprise, and I don't know how to respond. I knew this would come up one day; I just didn't think it would come up this day.
My hesitation plays out on Robert's face. I move my hand to his sideburns and play with the short hairs there. “We don't have to,” he says after a moment.
I take a deep breath, and when I let it out, I fix my eyes on his. “I haven't had good experiences with that.”
“The guy you never kissed?”
I pause a moment before answering. “Yeah.”
“Will you tell me about it someday?”
“Someday.” I hate disappointing him. I hate giving Kevin that power. He took so much from me, and now I'm letting him limit my intimacy with Robert. I don't want that, but I'm afraid, and I'm not even sure of what. “Is that kind of sex important to you?” I ask.
He hesitates before answering, as if he's examining the question and his feelings in order to respond honestly. I love that about him. Finally he presses his forehead to mine. “No, it's not important to me, but
you
are.”
 
O'Donnell Street Pub is not far from the hotel. It's an Irish pub and a small live-music venue located on a dimly lit side street near downtown, but very popular with those who've been lucky enough to discover it. The crowd is mostly young, professional urbanites. I've been here twice with Maya, and I've never seen anyone I know. I have tickets for the nine o'clock show.
This is the first time I've taken Robert out on a real date, and I want it to be something special.
A waitress greets us as we settle in at a small round table for two along a wall adjacent to the stage. “What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”
“I'll have a beer,” Robert says with an admirably straight face.
My eyes widen but I don't mention that he is not old enough to order beer. “Make that two. Guinness Stout.”
“Two beers, you got it. I'll need to see some ID, please.”
Robert pats his pocket. “Oh, gosh. I left my wallet in the car,” he says sheepishly. “I'll just have a Coke.”
I produce my ID and she gives it a quick look without skipping a beat. “One Coke and one Guinness Stout coming up.” She flashes Robert a smile that seems to suggest I'm not the only one who wants in his pants. My heart swells with pride.
“What?” Robert says when she leaves.
“A beer?”
I think that's the end of it, but when the waitress sets our drinks on the table, then returns to the kitchen with our dinner order, Robert switches the mugs. “You're driving.”
I sigh. “My list of crimes is getting long and longer.”
“Ah. You worry too much,” he says, laughing. “Let's just have a good time.”
In truth, I'm not that worried. Robert was right—there've been no lightning strikes, no cops banging on my door. And even if Maya thinks she knows something, she'd never betray me. I'm sitting here with a guy I love more and more every day, and I couldn't feel more carefree, more fulfilled if I tried.
“I like this place,” Robert says, looking around. “Who are we seeing again?”
“Idgy Vaughn. She's from Austin. I think her music has been described as country confessional.”
“You're kidding, right? I mean, you—me—country music?”
“Come on. Be a little open-minded. You'll like her.”
Boy, that turns out to be an understatement.
Our steak and mashed potatoes come just as the band begins their first set. We move our chairs so we're both facing the stage. I order another beer, which Robert promptly confiscates.
I'm not sure at just what point I realize he's a little tipsy. Maybe it's the first time he touches his middle finger to his thumb, places them in his mouth, and lets loose an ear-splitting whistle at the end of a song. Or maybe it's when he starts singing the chorus. Or maybe it's when he jumps up at a break between sets, staggers a little, and says, “Let's get a CD,” then drapes himself over me and howls like a hound dog. To be fair, the last song was “Redbone Hound” in which Idgy and most of the audience howled like a hound dog. Only, when the song was done, they stopped.
I put my finger to my lips as we make our way to the side room where Idgy is signing her CDs. “Shhhh.”
Robert drops his voice and howls more quietly.
“Who shall I make this out to?” Idgy asks, smiling up at us.
“To Robert,” I say, to which he says, “That's me.” He says it to Idgy, and then he says it again to me.
“I know that's you,” I say.
And then he starts gushing. “I love you, Idgy Vaughn. This is the best concert ever.
Ever.
” And then he howls—
Ah-Rooo!
She smiles at him, then raises her eyebrows at me, and pushes the CD back across the table.
He would like another beer. I don't think so. I ask for two Cokes.
“Are you having fun?” I ask him.
He looks at me and grows absurdly serious. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
I roll them at him.
The band starts their next set on a somber note. Idgy tells about a small graveyard that she could see from her bedroom window growing up. The graves hold the bodies of twelve little girls who died a horrible death when their angel costumes caught fire during a Christmas play and they all burned to death. It happened so quickly that neither the nuns nor the mothers could get to them in time. The song is based on that tragedy. And it's sad. I even tear up a little when I hear it.
But for Robert, it's a two-beer-dead-dog sad song. Halfway through, I glance at him and see that his chin is twitching and tears are spilling down his face. I move my chair closer to his and put my arm around his shoulders. He folds himself into me and sobs for those little girls and those moms with empty arms and those dads who weep and the nun who lost her hands. I don't quite know what to do but hold on to him.
A couple at the table next to us look over with concern. “Is he okay?” the woman asks quietly.
“He's fine,” I say assuredly, although I'm not so sure I believe this.
When he doesn't settle down by the end of the next song, I decide the best thing to do is just take him back to the hotel. He's still clinging to me as we make our way through the tightly packed tables. Idgy calls out, “We've lost one. I hope he feels better.”
At the door, Robert suddenly stops and diverts unsteadily to the men's room with a rather loud, “I have to take a piss.”
Thankfully, the men's room is empty. He braces his forehead against the tile wall. I wait close by just in case he tanks.
“You okay?”
He sniffles, then buries his eyes against his arm. I'm glad that he's centered himself in front of the urinal because he is not watching where he's peeing.
A bearded older man with a graying ponytail enters. He eyes us then goes about his business.
When Robert finishes, I coax him off the wall, and he drapes himself over me again.
“You need to put your dick away and zip up your pants,” I tell him quietly.
He looks down and studies himself through blurry eyes and says, “What are you doing out?”
I stifle a laugh and do it for him. I can feel the older gentleman's scrutiny, but I don't dare look up. I clear my throat. “Come on. Let's get you back to the hotel.”
We barely make it halfway down the narrow, broken sidewalk to the parking lot before he says, “I don't feel so good,” then pukes in the weeds along a chain-link fence. I rub his back while he spits and cries. “Those poor little angels.”
 
I look at his pinched face and think that every single thing he does just etches him a little more deeply on my heart. Of one thing I'm fairly certain: He's been badly wounded, and every now and then something—an empty notebook, a dead dog, a song—rips open the scab and he bleeds. I want to just hold him and make all the bad things go away.
I brush a damp washcloth over his forehead.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers.
“You don't have anything to be sorry about.”
“I ruined the night and now I can't even get it up.”
This makes me smile because in truth, I'm a little worn out, and I like lying here next to him, quiet and sleepy. The heat is off and the room is getting chilly. I reach behind me and set the washcloth on the bedside table and turn out the light. Then I tuck the covers around us, press my cheek to his shoulder, and allow myself to drift off.

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