“Why did the man throw your brother to the ground?”
I tell her the whole story—start to finish—letting her know I can’t get the big guy’s son out of my mind. I’m still seeing the little guy hiding behind his father’s leg; I’m seeing the little guy crying, sobbing, so obviously afraid. I also tell her about my dream—the one where Nikki comforts the Giants fan.
When I finish the story, Tiffany says, “So?”
“So?”
“So I don’t get why you’re so upset?”
For a second I think she might be kidding me, but Tiffany’s face does not crack.
“I’m upset because I know Nikki will be mad at me when I tell her what happened. I am upset because I disappointed myself, and apart time will surely be extended now because God will want to protect Nikki until I learn to control myself better, and like Jesus, Nikki is a pacifist, which is the reason she did not like me going to the rowdy Eagles games in the first place, and I don’t want to be sent back to the bad place, and God, I miss Nikki so much, it hurts so bad and—”
“Fuck Nikki,” Tiffany says, and then slips another spoonful of raisin bran into her mouth.
I stare at her.
She chews nonchalantly.
She swallows.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“The Giants fan sounds like a total prick, as do your brother and your friend Scott. You didn’t start the fight. You only defended yourself. And if Nikki can’t deal with that, if Nikki won’t support you when you are feeling down, then I say fuck her.”
“Don’t you ever talk about my wife like that,” I say, hearing the sharp anger in my voice.
Tiffany rolls her eyes at me.
“I won’t allow any of my friends to talk about my wife like that.”
“Your wife, huh?” Tiffany says.
“Yes. My wife, Nikki.”
“You mean your wife, Nikki, who abandoned you while you were recovering in a mental institution. Why isn’t your wife, Nikki, sitting here with you right now, Pat? Think about it. Why are you eating fucking raisin bran with me? All you ever think about is pleasing Nikki, and yet your precious Nikki doesn’t seem to think about you at all. Where is she? What’s Nikki doing right now? Do you really believe she’s thinking about you?”
I’m too shocked to speak.
“Fuck Nikki, Pat. Fuck her! FUCK NIKKI!” Tiffany slaps her palms against the table, making the bowl of raisin bran jump. “Forget her. She’s gone. Don’t you see that?”
Our server comes over to the table. She puts her hands on her hips. She presses her lips together. She looks at me. She looks at Tiffany. “Hey, sister sailor-mouth,” the server says.
When I look around, the other customers are looking at my foulmouthed friend.
“This isn’t a bar, okay?”
Tiffany looks at the server; she shakes her head. “You know what? Fuck you too,” Tiffany says, and then she is striding across the diner and out the door.
“I’m just doin’ my job,” says the server. “Jeez!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and hand the server all the money I have—the twenty-dollar bill my mother gave me when I said I wanted to take Tiffany out for raisin bran. I asked for two twenties, but Mom said I couldn’t give the server forty dollars when the meal only costs five, even after I told Mom about overtipping, which I learned from Nikki, as you already know.
The waitress says, “Thanks, pal. But you better go after your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say. “She’s just a friend.”
“Whatever.”
Tiffany is not outside of the diner.
I look down the street and see her running away from me.
When I catch up to her, I ask what’s wrong.
She doesn’t answer; she keeps running.
At a quick pace, we jog side by side back into Collingswood, all the way to her parents’ house, and then Tiffany runs around to the back door without saying goodbye.
The Implied Ending
That night I try to read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Nikki used to talk about how important Plath’s novel is, saying, “Every young woman should be forced to read The Bell Jar.” I had Mom check it out of the library, mostly because I want to understand women so I can relate to Nikki’s feelings and whatnot.
The cover of the book looks pretty girly, with a dried rose hung upside down, suspended over the title.
Plath mentions the Rosenbergs’ execution on the first page, at which point I know I’m in for a depressing read, because as a former history teacher, I understand just how depressing the Red Scare was, and McCarthyism too. Soon after making a reference to the Rosenbergs, the narrator starts talking about cadavers and seeing a severed head while eating breakfast.