The Last September: A Novel

“Okay,” I said. “I promise I won’t marry him.”


On my left hand, the reverse tan line created by Ladd’s ring had already become invisible. A few blocks away, at that very moment, he was packing up his house, probably making sure to discard any objects that held trace memories of me.

CHARLIE TOLD ME HE loved me in odd moments, not nearly as often as I wanted to tell him. If my life had become an effort not to complain—about Eli’s remaining on my couch, about Charlie’s running out of money and my TA stipend’s feeding all three of us—the greater effort lay in not announcing my own feelings every time I saw him. I drank up every intimation of his possible love for me, the food he prepared, the broad hands he laid upon me so carefully, and—best of all—the smile that erupted at the sight of me. In all the world, I wanted one thing, to keep him with me. I had to prevent myself making any false moves, from frightening him away with the sheer degree of everything I felt.

As for Eli, he barely registered interest when I gave him the number of the kennel, but he did call. I helped him pick out what to wear for his interview. “Use lots of soap,” I told him, before he showered, and he did, emerging damp, a towel wrapped around his growing midsection, the sour odor very nearly masked. I ironed a pair of khaki pants and a blue plaid shirt, clothes that took the interview seriously enough yet indicated a willingness to be muddied by dog paws. On the drive over I didn’t say anything when Eli lit a cigarette, having already ceded victory in that particular battle. His hands shook, ever so slightly, as the flame caught the paper. It almost made me want to light it for him. He rolled down the window and sent the stream of smoke outside.

“Are you nervous?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “To tell you the truth, it’s hard to feel much of anything these days.” His brows did a funny little twitch, toward each other. It could have been anger or else an expression of nerves he didn’t realize he felt. I wanted to reach out and touch him, close my hand around his forearm, or place it on his shoulder. Something. On the other side of the wall from where he slept, Charlie and I existed in a world of skin on skin. Whereas Eli’s only physical contact was with the cat. Once again, his cat.

I pulled up in front of the kennel. It would be a noisy place to live, with dogs constantly barking. But there was a nice white clapboard office—I guessed the apartment was on its second floor. Its windows looked right out on the dogs. Probably the cats boarded inside and Eli would be able to sneak one out at night and take it to sleep with him if he got the job. I didn’t consider letting him take Tab. My generosity always stopped just short of enough.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” I asked, as he stepped out of the car. Maybe they would take me for his girlfriend; I could confer the needed degree of normal.

“No, it’s okay. I can do it.”

“Break a leg,” I said, and he smiled a little, a rare glimpse of the old Eli, the appreciative crinkle around his eyes.

While Eli interviewed, I sat in the car reading Austin and Mabel, the tangled account of Emily Dickinson’s brother and the woman he became involved with after his marriage to Sue began to crumble. Every page I turned, every minute that ticked by, felt like a good sign. After about a half hour, Eli emerged with a plump gray-haired woman who appeared to be giving him a tour. Another good sign. I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs. A black-and-white collie took note and barked ferociously, a high-pitched warning. Eli reached through the wire and offered her a hand, and the dog quieted, trotting over to him.

“Hey,” Eli said when he came back to the car. “I got the job.”

I walked around to hug him. His fingers trembled at my back. “Good work, Eli,” I said. “Congratulations.”