You Can Say You Knew Me When (44 page)

Then I realized she was alone. We hadn’t even pulled out of our hug when she launched into the story of how AJ had pitched a fit as they were packing—a marathon of tears that lasted all the way to the ticket counter. “Finally I said, ‘I’m going, and you’re staying here,’ and he calmed down. Andy said I should go without him, and if AJ regretted it later, too bad. His own fault for being such a brat.”

“Is it possible for a five-year-old to need space from his mother?” I wondered aloud.

“I’ve never left him alone for this long.” She was already digging into her purse for her phone. “I almost called home from the plane, except it’s like five dollars a minute to use that thing on the back of the seat.”

I squeezed the soccer ball, which felt puny and inadequate in my grasp. I’d been nervous about AJ coming, worried that I didn’t know how to be an uncle to a five-year-old, especially on my own turf, so I’d made preparations, searched the guidebooks for activities for kids, bought a few videos I thought he’d like.

Deirdre’s thumb was skating atop the keypad. “Hi, it’s me…Yeah, it was fine. How is he?…He didn’t say anything?…Okay, let me talk to him…Hi honey, it’s Mommy. I’m with Uncle Jamie. Are you okay?…Really?…You’re sure you’re okay?…Mommy loves you a lot.”

She hung up as I was mouthing that I wanted to speak to him. “Sorry, he had a friend over,” she said.

“Rejected by yet another male in the Garner family!” I swooned, touching the back of my hand to my forehead. The sting of my nephew’s absence surprised me—for God’s sake, the kid was five—but it was real, just the same. Still, I didn’t want to increase Deirdre’s anxiety, so I added quickly: “We’ll just have to figure out how to have fun without him.”

At baggage claim I asked about Nana, who was starting to walk again, her spirits finally lifting, and Deirdre asked about Woody. I told her a version of our breakup so vague it must have been obvious I was editing out the unflattering stuff. The last time I was at this airport I’d stood at this very carousel with him, and I could visualize now his face as I’d reacted to his question about the stain on my shirt. Exiting the airport in the car Deirdre had rented, I sat in the passenger seat, as I had that night, just three months ago, when Woody had driven me back to the city. I had felt then that something new awaited me, in the form of the box I’d carted from the attic. What I hadn’t known was that this beginning would also bring about an end. Or had I? Had I provoked it? I saw him in the driver’s seat, headlights moving across his face. Even in the darkest moments of that ride there was still a gossamer glow upon him—the orange light of the city at night—and he wore a patient smile, the kind you reserve for someone in whom you’ve placed your trust.

I snapped back to attention, to Deirdre at the wheel asking me if I could recommend a hair salon. “I cut my own,” I said.

“You do?” she deadpanned. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Very funny. We’ll ask Colleen,” I said. “She’ll know.” I told Dee about Colleen quitting her job, about how she was going to follow her longtime dream of designing her own clothes, starting with classes in pattern making and tailoring. She wasn’t going to waste any time, would turn the situation to her advantage.

“You haven’t told me about going to LA,” she said.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, we’ve got all week.” She patted my thigh. “Just you and me.”

At the touch of her hand, I felt an unexpected lightness: I’d have her to myself, adult to adult, our time not dictated by the needs of a child. Then the chime of her cell phone, that wireless umbilical cord, tolled again.

When we walked into my apartment, Jed was visible at the far end of the hall, sitting at my computer, bare chested.

“I can’t figure out how to work your modem,” he called out. Behind him, in the living room, stood a girl with short, mangled hair, a black hooded sweatshirt, black Dickies cut off below the knee, and lace-up boots. She looked like Colleen ten years ago, a
riot grrl
, possibly lesbian, with a pretty face and a stance like a wrestler.

“That’s my Bethany,” Jed said, his thumb arcing toward her—though what I heard was, “That’s my Bentley,” as if he was instructing a valet to park his car.

She said, “Hey, ’sup? I’m Bethany,” and flagged her hand at us. “Nice crib.”

“This is my sister, Deidre,” I announced.

Jed popped to his feet and charged down the hall with his tattooed arm extended, his every muscle taut. I flicked on the overhead light and his nipple piercing twinkled. He had never appeared more sexual than he did at that moment, gripping my sister’s hand, then backing far enough away to afford us both a prime view. Deirdre’s eyes roamed frankly across his skin, like he was a gigolo I’d hired to surprise her.

“Your brother’s awesome,” Jed said to her. “He’s totally helping me out.”

Deirdre nodded, looking confused, and excused herself to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

I stepped close to Jed. “Why is your shirt off?”

“I was gonna borrow one from you.”

“Dude, you need to go,” I said.

“This won’t take long. We can stay out of your way.”

“Why can’t you use Ian’s computer?”

From down the hall, Bethany spoke up. “We’re not, like,
into
Ian right now.” Jed sliced his hand across his neck, twice, a gesture directed at Bethany but done broadly enough to ensure that I saw him reining her in. This annoyed Bethany, who grumbled, “It’s no secret he’s on a power trip.”

Jed turned his full attention to me. “Everything’s chill. No worries.”

The phone rang. I moved past Jed, down the hall. “Hello?”

“Jamie? Ian. Is he there?”

Jed had joined Deirdre in the kitchen. I could hear her voice questioning him, though the question itself was obscured. Bethany had plopped on the couch and was sagging forward, her knees knocking together. There was a blanket of neutrality about her: She could have been annoyed or embarrassed or just plain bored.

I asked Ian what had happened—what
was
happening, right now?

“Did he tell you about the broken window?”

“What window?” I looked around the living room.

“At my place. Never mind. Tell him to wait there. I’ll be right over.”

“No, Ian. Deirdre’s here.”

“Jesus Christ.” I heard him flick a lighter and inhale. “Put him on,” he said through the muffle of smoke.

Jed answered my summons by marching halfway down the hall and then pausing abruptly, his head dropped, his hands on his exposed hip bones—a pose meant to indicate some necessary collecting of thought, or maybe he was just pouting over whatever he’d done to piss off Ian. He and Bethany were an army of nonverbal gestures, dramatic but open to interpretation.

I walked out of earshot as soon as he took the phone. Whatever this was, I didn’t want to know. Back in the kitchen, Deirdre asked, “How old is he?”

“Nineteen.” Seeing how poorly this sat with her, I added, “I’m helping him out,” before realizing this line was Jed’s from a moment ago.

I heard the phone bang onto its cradle, followed by the amplified sounds of the modem beeping and hissing. With a deep, weary breath, I trod the hallway once again, coming up behind Jed and Bethany, who were hunched over the keyboard, complaining in turn about the slow connection.

“I need you to clear out, dude,” I said. “And I need the keys.”

Jed looked stung. “My keys?”

Bethany muttered, “What did I tell you?”

“What
did
you tell him?” I asked.

“You’re not gonna go to Mexico,” she said.

Jed forced a laugh. “Bethany’s a trip, right?” I could see distress gathering in his eyes; I remembered the story of that Stanford professor shipping Jed out before the faculty party.

I said, “This has nothing to do with Mexico. I just need keys for Deirdre while she’s here.” He pushed away from the desk and stood facing me, clearly agitated. “Please,” I said.

He reached for my shirt, his fingers gripping a clump of material above my heart, and tugged, pulling me off balance. “I miss you, bro,” he said. His head fell humbly forward and his eyes rolled seductively upward. Then his lips covered half the distance between us and, magnetized, mine traveled to meet him: a full, wet lock that I let continue too long.
I could kiss him like this in Baja
—a thought that produced no image, no warm anticipation, just a question:
But what would I have to give up?
I pulled away, tasting tobacco in our spit.

After he left—grabbing a shirt and taking Bethany with him—Deirdre asked, “Is he why you broke up with Woody?”

“No,” I said hurriedly. And then, sighing, “But it’s related. It’s all related.”

We stared at each other, grappling for words—she obviously trying to form another question, me tossing around exactly what I meant by
all
. When it came to what went wrong with Woody, how far-reaching was the web of circumstance?

Finally she said, “I should take a shower,” and the subject was dropped.

After showering, she napped, and I paced the apartment, desperate for counsel. Ian was the obvious choice, but Jed might be with him. The only other person who knew anything about Jed was Colleen. I called her at home, prepared to blurt out the one question on my mind: stay or go?

But Colleen preempted me, saying, “Speak of the devil.”

“What’s that mean?”

“There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

She handed off the phone before I could protest. My stomach lurched violently, expecting Woody.

“Hey, dude, long time no anything.” Not Woody—Brady.

“Wow. Yeah, it’s been a while,” I said. “What are you doing there?”

“I was telling Colleen about a rad warehouse party this weekend. There’ll be bands and DJs, and Annie’s showing some of her new artwork, too. You should come.”

“My sister’s in town.”

“Bring her along. It’ll be amazing.”

“Maybe.”

He cleared his throat, a sharp sound that I recognized as distinctly his, calling up an image of his face: dark eyes, straight hair, slightly soft chin. “Jamie, I’ve sent you like a hundred apologetic e-mails. You gotta talk to me.”

“I know. We’re due.” I smiled at how genuine he sounded. “I just needed some time, I guess.”

“So what’s new?”

“Where do I start?”

“Colleen told me you tracked down that guy you were looking for, the one your father knew.”

“It was pretty intense. I haven’t quite absorbed it.” He wanted to hear details, so I sketched him a portrait of Dean Foster: the reclusive B-movie actor with decades of audiotaped memoirs in his home, the movie career blunted by entrapment, and his—my—family’s homophobia. I could tell Brady was impressed. Laying out the story so succinctly, I impressed myself. “I haven’t called him again, but I should.”

“Hell yeah! You’ve got to get ahold of those tapes, man. Don’t you get it? This is what you’ve been looking for. Dude, you’ve got your
angle
.”

In an instant, I understood what my future held. Here, in San Francisco.

“I have something to show you,” Deirdre said. From her suitcase, she retrieved a photo album, its binding cracked and its cover so rippled with age I immediately knew it had come from the attic.

“Dad’s?” I asked.

“It was Mom’s. There’s so much stuff of hers up there. I’ve been digging through it, trying to figure out who she was.” She added shyly, “I’ve kind of been inspired by you.”

She flipped the album open to a grid of images from our mother’s childhood in Germany. There was Shirley, a bright, fair girl in plain clothing, standing in a vegetable garden, green beans snaking up poles in the background; and again, proudly displaying the hens she helped her parents raise on their few acres of land in Bavaria. My mother was born in 1945, just after the end of the war. Her father had fought briefly for the German army, was quickly injured and went back to his village to take over his family’s land. Even in the aftermath of the war’s devastation, my mother’s childhood seemed more placid than my father’s in New York, where everything was a struggle for the Garners. They met each other in Germany. He was in the US Army, and she was a teenage waitress at a restaurant run by one of her uncles, down the road from the base where he was stationed. The final pages in the album featured pictures of them together.

Deirdre said, “Mom used to say that the soldiers were like boys playing dress-up. But Dad already seemed like an adult, because he took time off after high school.”

“She always said he stood out,” I recalled, lingering over a handsome shot of Teddy in his khaki uniform—sturdy, though not yet the imposing block of granite he would become. Black-and-white photography turned his copper hair a gleaming silver. Under the brim of his cap, his serious face was anchored by two impossibly pale eyes, notably without expression.

He was only in Germany for a year, but by the time he left she was wearing his ring. The following year she got a student visa, came to the States and lived with the family of a cousin in the Bronx. Here Deirdre filled in some details, things she’d recently learned. At City College, Mom took science classes, hoping to be a veterinarian. Dad was in school back then, too, working on a bachelor’s in literature. (I remembered that he wrote his final undergraduate paper not on Kerouac or Camus, but on
The Great Gatsby
, a book he reread every year.) They married after school was over. It was very simple, the whole thing: Meet, fall in love, set up your future together. Much simpler, I now knew, than what came before for Teddy.

“Look what else I found,” she said. She pulled a tiny object from her purse and handed it to me.

A gold band. His wedding ring, the one I’d searched for and failed to find, the one he was to have been buried in.

“I got rid of Dad’s bedroom furniture,” she explained, “and there it was beneath the dresser, half stuck under the rug.”

“I looked there,” I said, though in truth I couldn’t remember how thorough I’d been. There were gaps in my memory of that week in New Jersey—the funeral itself was almost gone, as if I’d had a fever the entire time, half-asleep while the world spun around me. Until I entered the attic.