Long Division Page 23

  “I guess we’ll never know,” I said to Stephen. And then my phone rang. 012345678. David. “David,” I said out loud and made some awkward motion to Stephen that signaled I needed to take the call and step away for a few minutes. After I picked up the phone and started the usual “howareyous” with David, I wandered down to the bank of the cemetery’s glassy pond. I was telling David about my first days in Boston, and I sat in this wooden chair under a tree. The chair was carved out of a girthy log—an oblique angle sliced and sanded to form a surprisingly comfortable recline. Our conversation was pleasant but unremarkable. David seemed in okay spirits, and he cited his proximity to completing the deployment several times. He asked if I had received the birthday package he sent me yet,144 and I told him I had not. He teased me a bit for being on a picnic with another man and I told him he’d been picnicking with other men for months so it was fair. And then a giant stone fell from the sky and pinned me to the ground by my chest. It was a true scientific miracle since the stone was made of a previously undiscovered element called Guiltesium Infintesibitchide. The mass of Guiltesium Infintesibitchide in grams/mol is 983, which if you give a fuck about chemistry at all you’ll understand is a wicked dense material. Luckily, I walked away from the scene with only minor bruising.

  When I returned to our picnic spot, we packed the scraps back into our bags and Stephen led me toward the grave of e. e. cummings. He had asked “Do you want to see the grave of e. e. cummings?”

  And I had said “Okay!” with a lot of enthusiasm because I was on vacation and it was sunny and I was up for anything that might distract me from the horrible thought I was thinking at that moment. 145

  Stephen said nothing to prepare me for the sight of the famous modernist’s grave. Since the cemetery hosted many a beautiful and extravagant monument, I was expecting e. e.’s to be the same, but with some quirky twist. A sentence fragment embodied in an oddly cut stone.

  “Almost there,” Stephen said, and we scrambled up a little hillside to a shady line of graves along the trees. “Ta-da,” he said and stopped. I swung my head to each side, expecting something big and eye level. Stephen pointed down, directly to our feet.

  EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS

  1894-1962

  And then I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a very inappropriate thing to do in a graveyard—the noise turning the heads of foraging squirrels and bouncing off the marble facades of somber memorials—but the full name and the all-caps lettering struck me as hilarious. When my bellowing faded into an exhausted sigh, I looked right at Stephen, whose arms were folded over his chest, his posture slouched back, head tilted in amusement.

  “Funny,” he said flatly. “When I took Gus here in college, he had the exact same reaction.”

  Stephen and I took the same bus back downtown and then parted ways. He had to meet a prospective Harvard dental student for drinks, and I was headed back to Michelle’s to clean up for dinner. Maybe it was being around all the corpses or thinking about Alden or talking to David in his war zone, but I had this really sick fantasy on the subway ride to Cambridge. There was a middle-aged man sitting next to me on the train. I only looked at his face right before I sat, but there was something very tense about it. A tightness in his jaw. A severity in his eyes. He was wearing a Red Sox hat and a frown so profound that I figured the team must have lost some important game that afternoon. And for several minutes I really wanted to turn and look at him. To check and see if the frown was accompanying him through every lurch and turn of the subway car. But I didn’t. Instead, and I really don’t know why, I imagined he was a terrorist. It was my first terrorist fantasy: wholly uncomfortable and completely transporting.

  The scene. Terrorist silently pulls a gun from his jacket and positions it against my temple. Hey, he shouts. Everybody, listen up. People put down their magazines and math textbooks. Conversations halt. The snoozers lift their heads and force their wimpy eyes in our direction. If anyone comes near me before I’m done talking, I shoot this girl. I have a bomb in this bag that I can detonate simply by pressing this button at my hip. I am going to blow up this entire subway car, killing myself, all of you, and this young lady right here. It is my destiny to die today. Just moments from now. However, if one of you will give me permission, if one of you can say the words “Sir, please kill the girl,” I will shoot her, I will shoot myself, and the rest of you sinners will be spared. If no one speaks up, the bomb blows and we all die together. Any of you. It could be your decision. You could be a hero. That is, if you have the courage to watch this pretty lady’s brains splatter across this window. And then my brains. Just say the words and the future is yours. When I finish this sentence, you will have thirty seconds to decide. And suddenly everyone in the car is looking at me, judging me, wondering what sort of sins I’ve committed and what sort of companion I will make as we all hold hands and walk toward the gates of heaven. I see a woman with a small child scan my fingers for a wedding ring. I can almost see her thinking that it’s worth sparing her child if I have none of my own. A professorial-looking type across from me is twisting his fingers, trying to deduce some logical way out of this story-problem disaster. In the fantasy, Tyler from the café is in the car. He’s standing, white-knuckle grip to a pole, staring at me, shaking his head, and mouthing the word “sorry.” But the time is ticking away and no one is saying anything. The man beside me is still, silent. Hand on the gun: steady. Other hand on the belt: steady. Counting silently. What number is he at? Twenty-one? Nine?

  And though I don’t want to die, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I am restless and anxious and so full of some pungent elixir that is the combination of every possible emotion ever. It’s like mixing all the fountain sodas together at a pizza parlor. Strong. Overwhelming. Indescribable. The people on the train keep turning their faces to each other, searching eyeballs for approval. Are we worth it? Am I worth it? Are you worth it? All these people with families and babies and bigger hearts and more life insurance than me. And no one is saying anything. Why can’t they? Don’t they get it? One is less than fifty. It won’t be your fault! I want to scream. No one will blame you. No one will blame you. Say it. Say it. Say it. But that’s the thing. Humans (ME) inherently don’t want to hurt each other (DAVID), but the universe is such that we end up doing it anyway (I THINK I LOVE GUS MORE). I am so close to the bomber my upper arm makes a seal against his rib cage and I feel his lungs swell significantly, purposefully, because he knows it’s his final breath. I make my most pleading look at the professor, Tyler, the mother, David, Gus, Caitlin Fucking Robinson. Somebody say it!

  “Sir, please kill the girl.” The voice is calm and kind of sweet. Quiet to almost a whisper. A very intentional volume because its speaker wants both to be heard by the killer and then not heard by the rest of the crowd. I have just a few moments, the time it takes for the gunman to release his final measured shot of carbon dioxide into the air before his scattered remains take over in chaotic decomposition. And in that last moment, I get it. I see that I’ve found the loophole. I recognize the voice. It’s mine.

  Totally fucked up. Right? Luckily, the somber man beside me was not a deal-making terrorist, so I got off safely at my stop and started walking to Michelle’s house. I tried to put my finger on where such an elaborate, violent fantasy came from. What were the origins of this desire to paint myself as the valiant martyr? The only way I could emerge from my present situation as the martyr is to tough out my relationship until David returns and it becomes clear whether or not there is something worth preserving. And really, that’s the wimpiest form of martyrdom I’ve ever heard. What do I lose? I tolerate another two months of scratchy phone calls and blasé, irritable e-mail chains. Big whoop! But the terrorist fantasy has left me feeling something urgent. The man made it crystal fucking clear. Someone has to lose. Someone must be the bad guy.

  The rest of the trip was fairly lovely. There was some bar hopping with Michelle’s friends in honor of my twenty-fifth birthday. A cozy ni
ght in, where we baked brownies and watched girly movies. Michelle braided my hair while I rattled off a few of my concerns over mine and David’s dehydrated relationship. I came so close to telling her that somewhere between a chewed-up apricot and a plaster hand turkey I had fallen in love with my childhood buddy. Michelle is smart and articulate and clever (and perhaps more perceptive than she lets on), but this was the sum of her advice: “Just wait, Annie. I guess you just have to wait.” So much for the terrorist’s urgency.

  I had a morning flight back to Seattle. The coffee I drank at the airport was pumping robust surges of energy through my limbs, and I was disappointed to waste such a buzz by sitting down and strapping into the airplane. I had the middle seat. Before the plane took off, I pulled a spiral notebook from my bag to take some notes about the week,146 and after writing for several minutes I discovered some papers tucked into the back of the notebook. It was Max Schaffer’s essay on spiders. I had thrown it in there on the last day of school with the plan to read it over again at my leisure when I wasn’t rushed by the stack of twenty-eight other papers to grade. So I read it again there on the plane. It delighted me so much that I was all smiles and giggles when I ordered my ginger ale from the flight attendant. When I finished, turning back to my notebook and sticking to the Annie Harper the Second trajectory seemed dull and stifling. I remembered Dark Tide: The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919, which I was already halfway through, but I had foolishly checked it inside my luggage. I considered striking up a conversation with the people next to me,147 but since we’d been in the air for about fifteen minutes already, it felt as though the window of opportunity had passed. And so I did something I hadn’t done since the fifth grade. (It came fairly easily since I’m such an evil, lying memoirist.) I wrote a short story. Extra credit for me!!!

  Back in the Seattle airport I had about twenty minutes before my parents arrived to pick me up. I was rather pleased with the effects of my morning coffee, so I swung into a line at a Starbucks kiosk and bought more: a refueling to help me through the vacation roundup that my parents would surely require. As I was stirring my milk in with the little wooden stick, watching the swirls and thinking fancifully of Tyler and his silly hearts, I heard a familiar voice. “Okay, I love you. Bye.” And then the snap of a flip phone. It was Charese Atkins.

  “Oh, hey, Charese.” She was adding packs of Equal to her latte two at a time.

  “Miss Harper.” She seemed a bit rushed but still genuinely glad to see me. “Headed out for vacation?”

  “No. I’m just back from Boston. Visiting friends. And you?”

  “For better or for worse, I’m headed back down to San Diego.” She gave me a look that said I can’t believe I’m doing this, but if you think I’m crazy, it’s okay because I also think I’m rather crazy. I resolved to work on my version of that look when I get home. It’s probably quite handy.

  “To see your ex?” I asked tentatively.

  “That’s right. He’s being deployed in a few weeks and he said he really wanted to see me before he left. Missed me. Loved me. All that crap. And so, fuck, I’m going down.”

  “Wow. Intense.” I took a dribbly sip of my coffee.

  “No kidding. At first, I wasn’t going to budge. I thought I was so done with him. But he’s Lacey’s daddy and he was my husband and he’s going into something so lousy that maybe he kind of deserves to be cut some slack. He could die over there without ever getting to see us again.”

  “So Lacey’s coming too?”

  “Yeah. My mom’s bringing her down in a few days. Rick and I thought it was best for us to reconcile a few things before we bring her on the scene. He’s dying to see her.”

  “I can’t blame him. Lacey’s a great kid.”

  “Thanks.” And then Charese looked at her watch and cursed the time. We said good-bye and she rushed off to her flight. I wheeled my stuff outside to where the cars loop around and around until the picker-uppers spot the arrivers and they pull over to hug until the airport workers hurry them along. I sat on my suitcase and thought about what Charese had said about cutting Lacey’s father some slack because of what he was about to go through. Have I been cutting David enough slack? I thought. Was I too harsh about the Flores thing? The Helen thing? The boring thing? The thing thing thing thing?148

  Then my parents came. I was glad to see them. I talked about the molasses flood nearly the whole ride home.

  25

  Today I’ve chosen to represent my feelings and experiences in a series of humorous, light-hearted short stories. I’ve titled the collection That’s What Humans Do, and the following story was cowritten by myself, Annie Harper, age twenty-five, and Max Schaffer, age nine.

  A Romance in Eight Legs

  ONE

  The female desert spider is difficult to impress. When a male spider comes looking for action—looking to spread his genes like biology tells him he has to—he must be very, very careful. Approaching the female’s web, he uses his front legs to shake her perfectly crafted masterpiece with certain socially appropriate vibrations. Vibrations that tell her he’s not food. Vibrations that tell her he’s deeply interested. Vibrations that tell her what orifice he’s shooting for.

  In a series of arm-flapping, booty-shaking, abdomen-twisting movements, the male does his best to show the female that his are some genes worth passing on. Nature’s proven choreography. All the hip spiders break it down like this. These pedipalps, baby, are loaded with some sperm your precious eggs are aching for. Oh, yeah.

  And that’s how scientists thought it went. For a very long time. Now they know that there’s a little more to it. Good moves won’t get you everything. Before it all starts, before the eight-legged seduction ensues, the male releases a pheromone. A scent that tells his potential mate he’s ready. Ready to perform. I’m not food, sweetie, I’m the father of your children! She receives this smell, and if she’s willing—willing to humor his chivalrous romantic boogie—she sends a scent back. He dances. She watches. Game on.

  TWO

  “God, Ivy, you are so difficult to impress. Look at that guy’s shoes. They match his shirt perfectly. And he just picked up that girl’s purse—that’s so sweet. And he’s drinking Stella. You love Stella. Go talk to him.”

  “No. I don’t want to talk to him.” Ivy smoothes her hair behind her ears. Takes a drink of her rum and Coke, letting the ice hit her teeth and chill them for almost long enough to hurt.

  “He’s been totally checking you out all night. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to dance. Bought you a drink or something.” Ivy’s best friend, Carly, is a queen of social mores.

  “Whatever. I doubt he’s a good dancer,” Ivy says, giving his shoes a more careful inspection. They are nice. A few minutes later, returning from the ladies’ room, they find him dancing. With his guy friends. Ivy almost wants to laugh at his arm-flapping, booty-shaking, abdomen-twisting movements, but she doesn’t. She never thought 50 Cent could inspire such an odd, gangly, but nonetheless spirited routine. He catches her watching him and he winks. She usually hates winks. Thinks that only octogenarians can effectively pull them off. But there’s something about it. Maybe the way it lasted such a brief, fleeting moment? The way he didn’t stop moving to acknowledge her? The way his hair almost covered his eye so that he could have been twitching—not winking at all? Call it some weird glitch in her biology, but it worked. He danced. She watched. Game on.

  On their first date, they do that typical stroll-through-the-park thing. She’s eating an apple and they’re talking about bad teenage jobs they once had. She’s almost done with the fruit, just nibbling around the seeds and the stem. “You’re not one of those weird people who eats the whole thing, are you?” he says, and she pauses. Lets the hand holding the core drop to her side.

  “You mean those people who eat the core and the seeds and everything?”

  “Yeah, those.” He smiles. It’s almost challenging. She raises her arm, an eyebrow, stares straight into his eyes, and a
ttacks half of the remaining core. Seriously chomps it. She struggles to chew the bitter, fibrous innards, and he laughs momentarily. For about thirty seconds they walk in silence as Ivy tediously masticates the apple’s remains. After a final, triumphant swallow and a deft tongue maneuver to clean her teeth of any stringy remnants, she smiles.

  “Yes,” she says. “I am one of those weird people.”

  “Fantastic,” he says, and he kisses her.

  Three weeks and four dates later and it’s Valentine’s Day. Adam gets Ivy a wok. Ivy gets Adam convertible mitten gloves. They both seem pleased that their gifts are of comparable monetary value and sentimentality. Things are going well.

  “So, you really like him?” Carly is always rummaging through her purse for something. Pulling out tampons when she needs a pen. Loose change when she wants keys.

  “Yeah. I like him. We get along really well. He’s nice.” Ivy shrugs her lips.