Parts Unknown

Chapter 9





I closed my eyes, and this time, welcomed the memories. But try as I might to hold on to that first night with Josh, the explosive lovemaking, the feeling of total belonging that I’d never experienced before, my thoughts wound forward. After ten days together, Josh was as familiar as if I’d known him forever, and yet new, too, always surprising. He kept me aloft and floating, on a sea of his words. We spent so much time together—the whole day, every day—doing cheap things so as to save money for our separate futures, which would happen, impossibly, in just a few weeks.

August 12, we were going to see Cats—my first musical. Sure, Josh was planning to buy tickets on standby at half price right before the performance, but still—I was so excited to go to the theater district. I dressed up in a girlish flowered dress from TopShop. Slicked my hair up with gel and even attempted mascara, almost poking my eye out with the wand. It would have been so much easier to have been born a boy, I reflected, raking a hole in my new pantyhose with an errant fingernail on the first try. I carefully slid on another pair, then twirled in front of the mirror above the fireplace. I looked all grown up, going out to the theater with my boyfriend. Me! I smirked at the unreality of it all.

I settled myself on the sagging orange armchair in the corner of the room and waited. Josh had the night off; he’d been out running errands that afternoon. A few minutes before we were supposed to leave, he hurried in, did a double take, and then smiled weakly. My returning smile died as I stopped myself from getting up to show off my dress. “You look different,” he said uncertainly. “Why are you wearing that?”

“I thought I’d try to dress up for a change.” I felt immensely embarrassed—as if I’d been caught in some sort of trap.

“It’s not you,” he observed, tossing his parcel from Boots on the bed.

I thought, panicked, My god, he’s right. It’s not me, at all.

I almost wanted to change, put on my usual uniform—frayed jeans and an ancient crocheted top—but instead, I shrugged on my stained army surplus jacket, concealing my dress. Did he only know me through clothes and hair—my vintage, tattered garb and short spiky hair the one sign that I was really an artist, worth his love?

~ ~ ~

Short hair. I’d spent my whole life with straight brown hair that hung down in tangled strands around my face. Whenever the wind blew just a little bit, bits of hair would get stuck in my mouth; my hair would smell like spit by the end of each day. Post-Butler College acceptance, I went into a frenzy of change. Long earrings purchased at Ace Drugs, the miniscule all-purpose drugstore, cheap earring, and Max Factor makeup emporium on Twyford’s main street. Cheap slinky polyester dresses to wear to Saturday night parties with Kelly, my newfound ally. And the coup de grace: new hair. I surmised that the more I could change myself outside, maybe I’d change inside too. But the thought of saying goodbye to all that hair had proven rather terrifying.

It was April, and gray piles of icy snow were still everywhere. The faster I walked downtown, the less likely I was to change my mind. Snow seeped through a hole in the front of my Docs, but I didn’t let that slow me down. I went straight to Barrazzi! For Hair, the cheapest hair salon in Twyford. It was the sort of place where, if you paid them $8, they’d grab some scissors and cut the split ends off your hair, not even bothering to wet it down. This time, though, I had $20 in my pocket. We were going for dramatic transformation, here.

Linda, my stylist, was far more arty-looking than me, with about seventy visible piercings and tattoos. I wanted change of a different kind: “Cut it off! Cut it all off!” I yelled madly, like a line from a bad TV show.

I pulled my hair from its ponytail—it reached halfway down my back. It hadn’t been properly cut since my high-school freshman class picture day. “I know just what to do. You’re gonna love it!” Linda assured me, as she pulled my hair back, held it in one hand, and lopped it all off.

And what do you know. Forty minutes later, a smallish girl with a pixie cut gelled up in disarming little swirls exited Barrazzi! For Hair. The new Vivian Lewis had arrived.

Personal transformation through looks. It had been worth a try. It had given me Josh, after all.

~ ~ ~

We took the tube to the theater, holding hands, my universe shattered. I’d been found out; I had restored the fantasy just in time.

All through dinner, at L’Osteria, an inexpensive but pretty Italian restaurant—our first real, proper date—I chattered aimlessly, about roommates, and London weather, and swirled my fettuccine alfredo on my fork. Feeling the viscous texture of the linguine on my tongue, sliding down my throat, the faint taste of nutmeg like a warning. What if I wasn’t deep enough for Josh? Interesting enough for Josh?

But Josh talked easily too—about the girls he worked with, and the American tourist customers, who came all the way to England in search of the familiar—deep-dish pizza and Budweiser. As if vindicated that Americana could be found anywhere in the world. (Oh no, he was turning a simple conversation about his job into a deep philosophical statement! Crap, I had to counter:)

“I know what you mean. I can’t believe we share the same nationality. It’s like, any state that’s not on a coast, seems like it’s part of some foreign country of big, narrow-minded people wearing fanny packs.”

Josh laughed in appreciation. Whew—I was saved. And later, at the Adelphi Theatre, in our standby seats way in the back on the top tier, I lost myself in the music and spectacle of Cats. The songs echoed in my head as I leaned against Josh, holding tight to his hand.

~ ~ ~

We made love every night before bed, and every morning when we awoke. I never had time to heal properly, so I was always sore after, but with a pleasant buzzing feeling of contentment. I gave him all myself, like a gift, never wondering if there’d be anything left over for me, or if I should hold something back. I never did, and I thought he did the same, seeing the look of fear mixed with amazement in his eyes as he held me. It was terrifying, loving somebody that intensely. I thought, panicked, We’re feeding off each other, like vampires! There will be nothing left. We’ll burn it all up. It’s not safe.

But I did not speak. The conflagration seemed worth it: a bargain with the devil, for three weeks of passion. Twelve more days left.

Woke up the next morning to him smiling back at me. “So what do you want to do today?” I yawned.

“Let’s go to Buckingham Palace,” he decided. “I want to bring some marbles and roll them under the Beefeaters’ feet. You know, see if they flinch.”

“Mean!” I pinched him, then suddenly thought, He’s always deciding what we do. I tried to think about what I’d wanted to see when I’d planned my three-week stay in London, but couldn’t quite place it. Go to some museums maybe? What would I have done for three weeks, anyway? I remembered vaguely, Canterbury. That’s where I was going to go.

I propped myself on one elbow. “Hey Josh, want to go to Canterbury with me one day? On one of those cheap-day return tickets? See the cathedral?”

He rolled over on top of me and looked down. “Canterbury’s awesome, you should go. But why don’t you do it during your school year? I’ve already been, and I’d hate for us to be apart for a day—we’ve only got a couple weeks.”

I agreed immediately, almost relieved. Let him plan our time, juvenile marble-rolling or not. It gave me more time to think about what I wanted to paint that day, anyhow.

“I’m almost halfway through that watercolor block,” I said. “Maybe I can finish the whole thing before you go. And you can choose which ones you want to take with you.”

He kissed me deeply. “I’d want all of them.”

“Shameless flatterer!” I laughed.

We took the tube to Charing Cross, glancing at the black-markered Evening Standard sandwich boards advertising the day’s lurid news headline—Stabbed in Broad Daylight in Finchley!, then walked hand in hand down the Mall, the pinkish-hued street odd-looking beneath my feet, the lack of traffic almost disturbing. Josh jingled marbles in his pocket, laughing maniacally.

It was fun rolling the marbles, for about five minutes. Then we retreated to Saint James Park, nearby, and I spread out an old plaid blanket I’d found in Josh’s closet. We lounged on the grass, kissing sporadically, before walking in the direction of the Tower of London. For some reason, Josh insisted that I see all the London tourist sites, though all I wanted to do was stay right next to him, it didn’t matter where.

I soon discovered that the lengthy walk was just a way for Josh to tell me things I didn’t want to hear.

“You know I’m Jewish, right?” he began.

“I figured it out,” I said, remembering his references to Hanukkah gifts in one conversation.

“I didn’t tell you that I come from this pretty religious family. My dad’s not just strict, he’s religious and strict. But we’re all very close. I love my parents, and my dad and my sister. A lot.”

“Of course you do! They’re your family,” I said, surprised. “You should.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Josh fiddled with a button on his polo shirt. “I love them, and I love you. That’s two worlds that don’t match up.”

I shook my head. “I’m no threat. My family’s Methodist, but except for some obligatory church appearances a couple times a year just so my dad can angle for some votes, we’re pretty lapsed.”

“Listen—if a mother’s not Jewish, her child won’t be. And if I marry someone who isn’t Jewish, I’ll be disowned. Now do you understand?” Josh’s voice was fierce.

Marriage—that was something impossible even to think of. “Josh, we’re still in college,” I said, panicked. “You’re thinking about this too much! And you’re thinking too far ahead.”

“I know.” He picked at his cuticles, not looking at me. “I just wanted you to know. But, you know, we’ll be fine. Love finds a way, and all that.”

I felt as if I’d failed some test. But really, what was there to worry about? Disowned—that was like something out of a movie, not real life.

Still, I shuddered, my hands feeling icy, suddenly, and numb. So few weeks left, till that Bank Holiday Monday when Josh was leaving. But like Dov said—things figured themselves out. Somehow.

He put his arm around my shoulder. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s nothing,” I said quietly. “Just cold.” I blinked back tears. Everything in front of me, snatched away already. I couldn’t let it happen.

“Here I am talking about my crazy family, and I haven’t given you a chance to tell me about yours,” said Josh.

“I’m here, because they’re there,” I said. “If that makes sense.”

“You don’t want to talk about them.”

We’d reached the Tower of London and I lowered myself onto a bench facing the dour gray edifice. “I don’t even want to think about them. But I love my two brothers, and I should do more. Especially for my little brother Marty. I haven’t been a good sister to him--as good as I could have been. I just went away to college and left him there, you know? To fend for himself. And I feel guilty about it, but not guilty enough to do something. All I cared about was getting as far away from home as possible.”

Josh held my hand, and I could sense his relief. We didn’t have to talk about his family anymore. Now we could dissect my screwed-up one.

I told Josh about what had happened during winter break that year. One more reason why I was so eager to turn away from art, to go away to London.

I’d arrived home from the airport, gone straight up to my room, and could tell something was amiss. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I had a sinking feeling as I peered out my window and saw what looked like the soggy remains of eggs and toast atop the trees and shrubs below. Marty must have been using my room lately as an ideal location to dispose of unwanted meals.

Wait a minute--what else might Marty have been doing in my room?

With trepidation, I opened my closet door to look for my portfolios. I kept all my high-school and college artwork in a set of large brown portfolios: carefully rendered watercolors, Dali-esque oil paintings on board, a whole series of charcoal portraits of Barbie dolls. Paging through my work with increasing desperation, I saw that since I’d last been home, Marty had been using my room as his de facto art workshop. With Sharpie markers and crayons, he had systematically altered most of my art to resemble Jackson Pollock paintings.

The oils could be cleaned. The rest, unsalvageable. I threw myself onto my bed, pulled the pillow over my head, and cried for the rest of the afternoon. How little my art meant. All those pictures, made for nothing. And my room—my one safe place—violated.

“What I don’t understand,” I observed at dinner that evening, “is how he managed to put the artwork back so neatly in the portfolios, afterwards.”

My family’s dining room was in the same style as the rest of the downstairs—full-on Victorian. No holds barred. Vintage-style wallpaper covered every square inch of wall, in alternating William Morris patterns up to, and all over, the ceiling. Sepia-toned photos of presumed ancestors glared balefully from ornate photos arrayed along the sideboard. A gas-lamp-style chandelier hung so low over the table, we were always hitting our heads on it. Doilies were everywhere.

“I did that,” Mom confessed.

She had served dinner on her Wedgwood wedding china, as she always did. The gleaming plates had a thin gold band around the rim and had to be washed by hand. Mom spent at least half an hour in the kitchen after dinner, sudsing them in the sink, drying them, and placing them carefully back in the glass-fronted cupboard. Not like we usually all dined together like this. It was supposed to be my welcome-home meal, and Dad had made the effort to be home during dinner for once.

“So you were hoping I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t look through my old stuff?”

Tonight, the meal was sautéed duck breast. Mom had seared the skins to crackling perfection, carefully sliced and fanned the pink slabs on the plate, and scattered them with juniper berries over a wine-reduction sauce. Haricots verts and fingerling potatoes topped with tarragon from Mom’s herb garden completed the ensemble. I wasn’t too impressed. Mom cooked like this all the time. Food was one way that Mom showed off. Our family finances might be precarious, but you could count on her getting the genuine William Morris wallpaper, no matter the cost, and the duck breast instead of chicken.

“I didn’t know what to do!” she exclaimed, genuinely upset. And she probably hadn’t. If it didn’t have something to do with housework, gardening, or cooking, it was like she was blind. Marty just didn’t fit into any of those categories, and neither had I and Alex.

“Mom—can’t you stand up for me, for once? Why couldn’t you just do something about it? You could have gotten the oil paintings cleaned. You could have told me what happened. You didn’t do anything except hide it all and hope I wouldn’t notice!”

She spent a while cutting her sliced duck neatly into cubes. Finally she apologized, “I’m very sorry, dear. I’ll do better next time.”

“C’mon, Mom, there won’t be a next time. The artwork’s ruined.”

I chased a juniper berry around my plate with my fork. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to eat it or if it was just for show. Dad just ate intently, with the same lack of affect as if he were eating a fast-food cheeseburger. He didn’t look up. As far back as I remember, he’d always looked the same. Round face, with shiny pink cheeks—I bet his aunties pinched those chubby cheeks when he was small. Brown hair with just enough gray in it to make him look distinguished. The perfect picture of the councilman. Like any good politician, he wasn’t going to get involved in a battle that wasn’t his.

“It’s not like you cared about the art anyhow,” I dared.

“You know we always support you in anything you want to do, dear,” Mom said placatingly. “We’ve all been so proud of you, haven’t we, Howard?”

“Sure,” Dad said. “We’ve got your certificate from that Christmas card contest hung up in the office upstairs. You’ve seen it there.”

Right. My little certificate, lonely in its slim wood on-sale frame, next to the stunning array of Alex’s awards: Law Day winner, debate team first place, a UCLA book award, twelve perfect attendance certificates. On top of the nearby bookcase, twenty soccer and basketball trophies.

I rubbed at my reflection in the polished mahogany table surface with my finger. The table was so shiny I could see nearly the whole room reflected upside down, in miniature. In this looking-glass upside-down world, we could pass for another family, living other, better lives.

Dad said, “What do you think about the Sharks getting to the playoffs this season? I don’t think they stand a chance, personally, but don’t tell that to Bob Whitney. He’s started a pool, and I’m tempted to put a little something in.”

Mom intervened with an anecdote about a lady named Shirley in her book club who’d accidentally dyed her cat pink.

Marty was having his dinner under the table.

We finished eating, nothing resolved, or to be spoken of again.

I finished my story, staring at the tower windows—long, narrow, and dark. The worn gray and ochre bricks. That’s what history was: a series of mistakes made over and over. I felt so sad for all of us—Alex, me, and Marty—on a tight wire, with no net beneath. No one we could count on to keep us safe. I had to keep Josh. I had to.

“Marty . . .” my eyes filled with tears. “Maybe—I’m wondering if Mom thought he could be her second chance. ‘Cause she and Dad screwed things up big time with me and Alex.”

“Is he really her second chance?”

I shook my head. “She might have wanted him to be, but I don’t think it worked out that way. I’ve never seen more gourmet cooking than I did this summer. Anything to keep her busy and away from him. I think she’s always felt guilty about what happened with Uncle Paulie, but she doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Uncle Paulie,” said Josh.

“I’ll tell you about him. Soon,” I promised. It was the last bit I was keeping to myself. The final secret I’d told no one, ever. If I could tell anyone, it would be Josh. But not today.

I wondered what it would feel like to stand atop one of those turrets on the Tower, arms out, the wind blowing fiercely through them, my last moments of freedom before the axe fell.

Holding hands, we walked toward the Tower Hill tube station.

~ ~ ~

I couldn’t stop thinking about Marty as we walked. In fact, I had been thinking more about Marty lately than I ever had when I was home, and feeling worse every time I did so. I should have done more. Should have protected him, played with him, spent time with him. Instead, he was stuck with Mom, and she was always far too busy with her hands—gardening, dusting, or cooking. Instead of energizing her, all that activity seemed to sap her strength more and more. If she didn’t find enough to do, she might disappear: her continual housework had a smell of desperation to it. Back at home, whenever I walked past her in the midst of some chore I’d feel, guiltily, that I should be contributing. Walking to the tube station with Josh, I saw my parents’ house instead of the street in front of me. Mom, on her knees one morning last month, scrubbing the hardwood stairs with a bucket of diluted Murphy’s Oil Soap. I’d asked, “What can I help you with?”

“Oh, thank you, dear, I could use a hand. I’m way behind. If you want to grab a rag and start at the top of the stairs, then we can meet in the middle.” I did as I was told, creaking my way back upstairs with a dripping cloth. Every step squealed as I stepped on it. This house was so noisy, it would be impossible to rob undetected.

“How’s your day going?” I asked.

“Fine, fine. There’s just so much to do. I can’t see how I’ll ever finish my list by the end of the day.”

Every morning Mom wrote a to-do list on floral notepaper and stuck it to the fridge with a refrigerator magnet. It had at least ten items on it, and as she completed each one, she drew a dark, decisive line through it.

“Where’s Marty today?” My parents were holding the kid back a year until he was “ready” for kindergarten, and he was usually somewhere underfoot. I was surprised that I hadn’t heard a peep from him all morning.

She stared down at the steps. “We’re trying something new with him. It’s a full-day program. Your dad thinks it’s a good idea too.”

“So—all day, every day? Is something medically wrong with him?” I’d wondered whether something had been going on with Marty from the start. He didn’t fit into our lives, like a changeling—a child from elsewhere, some loud, reckless other family.

“No—Dr. Morris evaluated him. He’s a little hyperactive is all.” Just like my family—something always almost wrong, but not quite.

I felt bad for Marty. Mom had never put me and Alex in full-day preschool programs. In my distant memories, Mom always brought us home and we had lunch and afternoon naps. Then we’d play the rest of the day, climbing the glorious, huge magnolia tree in the backyard, or constructing elaborate fantasy worlds inhabited by our stuffed animals. Mom never featured in any of these memories. She shuttled us back and forth to activities; otherwise Alex and I were left to our own devices.

“Whatever works for you,” I said noncommittally.

“You don’t know how hard it’s been,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I just have so much to do—I haven’t been able to get anything done. Every day I have to carry over least five items on my list to the next day. I just can’t fall behind like that.”

I didn’t understand and scrubbed the steps thoughtfully for a while. Who cared whether the kitchen was mopped today or tomorrow? But maybe if Mom couldn’t finish her chores every day, the tensile nerves holding her psyche together would just collapse. And if Mom couldn’t cope, everything would fall apart. Weak as she was, she was the one thing tenuously holding our family together.

“Anyhow, you know what I’ve been really wondering?” she asked. “What’s so good about Murphy’s Oil Soap. That’s what I’d like to know. I mean, everyone uses it. But what would happen if I got the store brand? Safeway has its own floor cleaner, you know. Maybe I’ll give it a try. But then, there was the time I switched from Dawn to the store brand, and it just did not suds as well. It took forever to use up that dishwashing liquid so I could go back to Dawn again.” And she was gone again, lost in a reverie involving household products.

I wondered what would happen to Marty. I couldn’t imagine him grown up. He seemed more like a primate than a kid. But what did I know? I realized that I’d never actually attempted to converse with him. When he’d started talking—late, around age three—I was already on my way to college. And when I’d come back for vacations, I had no idea how to relate to him. No one did.

I was going to talk with the kid, I decided. He was my brother, after all. I needed to get to know him.

Somehow, though, the days went by, and I was always meaning to sit down with him the next day. Read him a book. Play blocks with him. Pretend we were superheroes.

But before I knew it, it was July 31, and it was too late.

~ ~ ~

Josh went off to work. I returned to the flat and knocked on Dov’s door. As he pulled it open, I saw that his walls were lined with wrinkled, recycled travel posters from Council Travel. A complicated hookah was set up near the window, and several Cadbury’s Milk Trays were stacked on his night table. He rubbed his eyes; he must have been napping. He was shirtless, his chest bristling with a quantity of black curly fuzz. “Hey, nice to see you,” he smiled. “You want to come in?”

I recoiled a bit. “No thanks. But I wanted to ask you—if you have some time, I’m ready to learn how to juggle.”

“Oh, sure.” He swiped his hands through his hair, reddening a little. “Just give me a minute.” He turned and rummaged through the pile of laundry on the floor near his window, and extracted a T-shirt I’d seen him wear several days previously. He sniffed the armholes, tossed the shirt back in the pile, and finally found one that passed muster. “I’ve got to do my laundry one of these days,” he said, linking his arm through mine and escorting me down the stairs.

“So it’s like this,” Dov instructed in the backyard, clutching three balls to his “I Heart Cheese” t-shirt, overgrown grass reaching to his calves. “You start with two, okay? And you toss them from hand to hand, just like I’m doing.” He threw two hacky sacks to me, and I followed along.

“I can do that,” I nodded.

“Alright, so then you add the third one. You’re always throwing. You’re never thinking about catching. Your hands will know what to do.”

I tried and tried. It was maddening. I could never hold on to the third ball. It took ages to find the dropped balls too, in the high grass.

“You have to trust your hands,” Dov repeated. “They know. If you think about it too much, you’re screwed. Just be throwing. Not catching. It’s like riding a bike. Your body just figures out what to do.”

A cool breeze swirled around us; old nicotine smells wafted from the outdoor table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Boris furtively scurry into the kitchen, grab a can of soup and a can opener, and retreat to his room. I dropped another ball.

“This reminds me of that game where you pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time,” I groaned, exasperated. “I could never manage that either.”

I dropped another ball. Watching Dov keep aloft four balls, grasping lightly, tossing lightly, making it look so easy.

~ ~ ~

After two weeks, I had lived in London forever. I had a student bank account at Barclay’s Bank, and a monthly London Transport Travelcard for the tube, with an accompanying London Transport Photocard. I had a National Insurance Numbercard, serious and official-looking in blue and red. Meanwhile, still acting the tourist despite my trappings of residency, I took photos of everything I could with my little point-and-shoot Minolta, trying to capture every last moment.

I was already down to 700 pounds in the bank; the exchange rate had clobbered my summer savings. But it was easy to live cheaply if a person mostly dined on frozen steak-and-kidney pies and leftover pizza. And loooooove, as I smooched Josh elaborately, celebrating our two-and-a-half-week anniversary. “Can’t buy me luh-ove,” he sang to me as we got on the tube at Camden Town station to go to the Theatre Royal Haymarket to see the play Richard III to celebrate.

“So when are you going to show me your story?” I asked him. Josh had been working for hours every day on a short story, and although I’d sneaked a few looks, he’d been holding it back from me. “It’s almost done,” he promised, “and you’ll be the first one to see it.”

I felt a surprising flare of anger. “I hope so! You get to see what I do, when I paint, at any moment. But you make it out like your writing is so personal . . . so private . . . I thought we shared everything.”

“Of course we do!” he exclaimed. “You know me better than anyone does. But I don’t want you to see it till it’s perfect.”

“I wouldn’t think anything less of you if it was less than perfect!” I snapped. “We’re both artists—we’re supposed to support each other through everything—good and bad.” My voice was rising; quiet commuters were looking at us askance, pulled out of their avid perusal of the day’s variety of tabloids. I caught a glimpse of a Page Three girl flashing from one of the papers, just as quickly concealed by the sober-looking banker type across from me.

The train screeched to a stop in the tunnel, somewhere a long way before the Goodge Street station. There was no sound from the passengers, just a collective outbreath of resignation. The train lights flickered and went out, then on again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a delay,” came the voice of the conductor. “There has been a bomb report at the Goodge Street station, so expect a wait until we are cleared to depart.”

Tabloid pages flipped. Passengers sat quietly, or stood easily, holding on to an overhead bar with one hand while reading with another.

Josh kept his voice low; without the roar of the engine the train was so silent. “You’re so talented, everything you do is great. And you should do more—there’s so much you have to explore. These portraits you’re painting—they’re awesome. Maybe you should try abstract next.”

I blinked. “Why are you telling me what I should paint?” I asked slowly, the beginnings of tears pricking behind my eyelids.

He threw up his hands. “That’s not the point. Paint whatever you like. But don’t waste your talent, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Don’t turn the fact that you’re hiding your writing into some rant about my art. That’s not fair.” I clutched the overhead bar so hard my knuckles turned white.

The train jerked to a start. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are all clear. We’re free to proceed to Goodge Street.”

“I’m going to show it to you,” Josh said. “As soon as we get home, okay? And you’re amazing, an amazing artist.” His arm uncomfortably tight around my waist.

I blinked into his hazel eyes uneasily. “I’m glad.”

We got home late, elated from the performance, our disagreement almost forgotten. Josh immediately went to his dresser and pulled out the lined yellow pad he’d been writing on. “Here,” he thrust it at me, “I should have shown it to you before. But it’s complicated. You being here inspired me to write it—but I don’t know how the story can end differently,” he said sadly.

It was a story of a religious Jewish boy who went away to a yeshiva in a big city, and befriended another boy, of a different religion. The boys played, shared adventures together, told each other secrets. In boyish enthusiasm, they pricked their fingers and made blood oaths to be brothers in spirit forever.

Eventually their families found out, and tolerated the friendship with suspicion—how could such different people find a common ground?—until finally the boy’s father decided it was time to transfer the boy to another yeshiva. He never saw his friend again.

It was a simple, poignant story. Entire crossed-out paragraphs kept the text minutely focused; each word mattered. “Maybe they could write to each other?” I suggested. “Of course they could write,” said Josh emptily.

“It’s really good,” I said.

“Thanks.” He picked at his cuticles, an annoying habit—they were often red and raw, directly correlating to how stressed he felt on a given day. “You know, I feel like a fraud half the time,” he half-whispered. “I love to write, and it’s all I want to do. But I’m never sure that I’m good enough to even try to make a go of it.”

“You’re amazing,” I reassured him. “The way you write—it makes me, just, feel. Your words can draw pictures in my head, like what you write is real. That’s a great talent.”

“You always make me feel so strong,” he said, running his fingers up backwards from my neck, like stroking a cat. “I never talk about my writing with anyone. You’re the only person I’ve let in. The only person who sees who I really am.”

“The same for me,” I said softly. “It’s scary. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”

“We’ll keep each other safe,” he promised.

Ten more days, I thought blankly, shivering against him. Ten whole days. The rest of my life yawned before me. An abyss.

Late that night, still awake, tossing and turning, I realized: He was right. He shouldn’t have shown me that story, after all.

~ ~ ~

On August 20, I eventually made it to the hostel and picked up my mail. Instructions from Butler College, forwarded from home—my dormitory room assignment, orientation meetings, a welcome tea. It was so confusing, allying the future—in less than a week now—with the present. I had worked so hard convincing myself that my life in Camden Town could continue forever, I had intentionally ignored the real future just ahead.

I slumped on Josh’s bed. “You’ll have to take the rubber plant with you; she’ll need a home when I go,” he instructed. “And I’ll help you pack up and go with you to the college and everything. It’s a bank holiday on the 25th, and my last day. We’ll go then.”

I was crying in earnest now.

“It’s perfect that I’m leaving Monday anyhow. Your school starts on Tuesday, and you’ll be busy.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair, agitated; my crying was making him nervous. “So we’ll make that last Monday together really special, okay? Then you’ll go off to Butler College, and you’ll have a great year. And we’ll email, all the time. I promise.”

I sobbed; I just couldn’t stop.

“Listen, really, just stop crying, okay? We can email, and Los Angeles and San Jose—they’re not far away. We’ll see each other, over Christmas break, even.”

“I don’t have any money to go home over Christmas break,” I honked forlornly. “I’ve got barely 700 pounds to cover my expenses for the whole year—I have dip into my college fund as it is. I have to stay here.” Bright light slanted through Josh’s window, as if mocking my despair.

“Well then spring break, or summer then. I’ll wait for you; you know I will. I love you more than anything, Vivian.”

I loved the way he spoke my name, slowly. Like my name was special. The way his mouth lingered on the sounds.

I squeezed his hands tightly. “What am I going to do without you?”

“What you’ve always done. But I’ll wait. We’ll talk on the phone too. And we’ll email all the time.” He didn’t know that I really meant it—I had no idea what I was going to do without him. He was the center of my universe, the planet I orbited around.

But Josh’s voice was soothing, comforting, smooth as caramel sauce. I let myself believe him.

~ ~ ~

It was supposed to be a festive evening—all of us together celebrating Josh’s last night. Instead it felt like a funeral.

Funny, it was the first time Dov, Trevor, Josh, and I had all gone out together to the Lamb and Castle. We sat in the same booth I always hung in with Dov and Trevor, but it was a tight fit now that Josh was here too. We all squeezed together, me at the end, Josh’s arm pressed around me, Dov and Trevor rounding out the corner booth. I trailed my finger through the condensation on my glass, making swirly patterns. Here I was with my three favorite people in the world. How crazy was that—they were the people I loved the most, and I’d known them less than a month. I felt more at home here at this table with them than I ever had during awkward meals with my own family.

I could tell Dov didn’t like being squinched next to Josh. I might love all of them dearly, but the way they felt toward each other was a different matter entirely. At breakfast a few days ago, Josh had been talking enthusiastically about the novel he’d been thinking about writing. While he explained, “It’ll be like the stream-of-consciousness in Finnegan’s Wake meets The Iliad,” I could swear I heard Dov mutter “poser” under his breath as he grabbed a handful of Weetabix for breakfast in the kitchen before making for the front door.

Still, Dov was cordial tonight, doubtless counting the minutes till Josh’s flight left tomorrow evening. His t-shirt read “I’m with stupid,” with a downward-facing arrow. “How was your last day at work?” he asked, gulping his pint of bitter.

“Ah, nothing to talk about really. The wait staff gave me a nice card they all signed. Nigel—he’s the manager—he shook my hand after I seated my last table and said, ‘Cheers, mate,’ in this obnoxious voice. Which I guess means whatever you want it to mean—goodbye, get the f*ck out of here, whatever. So I just left. That was it. It’s not like I’ll ever see any of those people again.”

“I imagine ‘Cheers, mate’ would not be a good toast for me to make tonight,” Trevor joked.

“By all means . . .” Josh smiled.

I raised my glass, taking belated responsibility for Josh’s farewell toast. “To friends,” I said tentatively. “To being together. May you have all the success in the world --” I inclined my head toward Josh. “--and may we all end up where we want to be.”

We clinked glasses, Dov’s half-empty already, everyone awkwardly stretching to touch each other’s glass so that the toast would be complete. I clinked Josh’s twice accidentally, forgot Trevor, clinked his belatedly. Dov pushed past us to get another beer.

“Well, Josh,” Trevor began. “Where will we be finding you then, in a year’s time?”

“I’ll have graduated by then,” Josh sipped his Guinness thoughtfully. “It could go either way, I guess. I’ll probably be getting ready for law school in the fall. Or else I’ll still be working nights as a host at some pizza chain in So. Cal. while I write the Great American Novel.”

Josh turned to me and blinked a little. “Of course, if you’re talking next summer, Vivian will be there too. She’ll either be spending my future legal earnings on fancy clothes and chocolate truffles, or she’ll be working two jobs to help me pay the bills while I write that novel.”

“I’ll work days as an office temp and nights as a stripper,” I teased. “I hear they get really good tips. And I could have a double identity, like Superman. Cubicle slave by day . . . temptress by night,” I intoned.

We were all loosening up, our pints almost gone. Trevor bought everyone another round. The pale liquid of my hard cider smelled and looked rather like pee, but it slid pleasantly down my throat.

“So where will you all be next year, then?” Josh asked the table.

“I hope to be working as a bank teller,” Trevor confided. “My dream is to work at Barclay’s Bank. Every day I go for job search, and every day I look for posts at banks. They have all been filled so far before I have had a chance to interview, but I am not concerned. There will be the job for me one day.”

“You bet, Trevor,” I encouraged him. “You’ll get that job.”

Dov slurped his bitter, talking out of the side of the glass. “I better the hell not be here, that’s for sure,” he slurred.

“If you hate it so much,” countered Josh, “Why are you here in the first place?”

“Oh, like you’d have any idea, rich boy,” sneered Dov. “We don’t all get to choose exactly where we want to be, and we don’t all have the money to even joke about writing our poncy fancy-ass novel. I’ve got a British passport, alright? And I’ve chosen to take my chances getting blown up in an IRA subway bomb instead of getting blown up on a bus in Tel Aviv, or having rocks and hand grenades thrown at me because I’m a soldier patrolling the Gaza strip.”

“Don’t pull that crap on me,” said Josh coldly. “You’re the biggest slacker I know. Don’t act all noble and self-sacrificing and shit, when you chose to bail out of your army service and smoke pot all day in London instead.”

Dov pounded his fist on the table. “You American Jews know nothing! You’re all smug in your little capitalist bubbles. Like sending money to Israel really makes up for what we have to live with every . . . single . . . frigging . . . day. You don’t wake up every morning wondering if you’ll survive the day. You don’t think twice about going inside a supermarket or getting on a bus. Well, listen, you little cocksucking --”

At this point Trevor forcibly intervened, putting his hands on Dov’s shoulders and forcing him to sit down again. He whispered audibly in Dov’s ear, “It’s Josh’s last night. Try to be polite, for heaven’s sake.”

I squirmed uncomfortably. I was so out of the loop, I couldn’t even begin to parse this animosity between these two Jews, thrown together in a foreign country and hating what the other represented. At least I knew now why those two had never gotten along. And I knew I had little hope of understanding Josh’s world, or Josh’s family—the family that knew nothing about me.

Dov was seething, at the bottom of his third pint already. Josh looked ready to bolt.

“So,” I interposed with forced cheer, attempting to recapture some shreds of conviviality. “We’ve figured out where we’ll be next summer, then. But what about five years from now? What’s everyone going to be doing then?”

Trevor said gamely, “I will be by then working in the back office at Barclay’s Bank. I have always wanted to do the behind-the scenes transactions. Tabulating the foreign exchange totals. Calculating the day’s trades.”

“You just want to wear a suit,” Dov teased him. “And you’d have a perfectly folded white handkerchief in your breast pocket.”

“You’ll look smashing,” I smiled, and Trevor flashed his even white teeth at us.

“I’m going to still be traveling,” Dov said. “Once I have enough money saved—I’m going to do what the Aussies and Kiwis do. They leave home and travel for, like, five years. They just keep going. And when they run out of money they pick up odd jobs here and there. So that’s what I’ll do. I figure in five years, I’ll be in Japan or Hong Kong. Maybe picking up work at a travel agency there or something. So what about you, nosy girl?”

I looked down thoughtfully at the patterns of circles the bottom of my glass had left on the cardboard Strongbow Cider coaster. “In five years . . . I want to be somewhere with my art. Really make a commitment to it, you know? Kind of like Josh with his writing . . . it’s silly, I guess, but it seems to be the one thing I’m kind of good at. And I want to get it out there in the world. Have these little pieces of me floating around out there, I don’t know, in people’s houses, and galleries, and coffee shops.”

“It’s not silly,” Josh said vehemently. “You know that. We’ve talked so much about this.”

He pulled me closer to him, really tight so that my lungs were squeezed. “Anyhow, in five years we’ll be married, huh,” he grinned. “With a couple little rugrats running around . . .”

I kissed him lightly. “You bet, big boy.” Everyone was laughing, good humor restored.

“Maybe,” I ventured, “In five years . . . or ten years . . . we’ll all meet again. Wouldn’t it be neat, to see each other again sometime. In some fabulous international location, of course.”

“Paris,” Trevor suggested, and Dov agreed.

“We’ll all meet at the Jardin des Tuileries,” Dov decided. “You two can bring the rugrats. Trevor will have a hot bank teller on his arm. I’ll still be a drunk pot-smoking loser, but I’ll fly there for free with all the frequent-flyer miles I’ll have from slaving away at international travel agencies for ten years, and I’ll get us all discounted hotel rooms.”

We clinked glasses. It would be time to leave soon. I miled sentimentally at all of them, grown-up boys on the verge of their real lives.