“She wouldn’t have told you that.” He looked at me, and then he looked away.
“If you run for office, this is a small town, and maybe it wouldn’t look so great for the future whatever of Allison Springs to have a wife who . . .”
“Shut up,” he said.
“But if you tell people about who you think I am, what would it do to me? Maybe people would care? Maybe they wouldn’t? I’m a private citizen and I don’t need anyone to vote for me for anything, you know? I can always move and plan weddings somewhere else.” I shrugged.
“You’re a bitch,” he said.
“Probably. Here’s what I think you saw. And the reason I think you saw this is because it is the truth. Aviva Grossman was my roommate at the University of Miami. We were close once, but I haven’t seen or heard from her in years. I’ll tell you, Wes, I do dream of her sometimes. It’s a little embarrassing. What’s even more embarrassing, though, is that you would have made such an error, but I can’t blame you. Who knows what kind of shoddy background check you get for forty-nine dollars online? Your failure to thoroughly research this matter is understandable. You’re a busy man, and I want to assure you I won’t hold it against you. People make mistakes. I don’t see it as some kind of moral failing.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“See, I do like you.” I offered him my hand. “Shake my hand,” I instructed him, and he obeyed. “Good doing business with you. I hope you’ll keep in touch.”
I watched that weasel walk away. Though he did not run, he walked briskly, eager to put some distance between us. I thought, Wes West, you are not one iota like Aaron Levin.
However, this might be unfair. It’s hard to know what I would think of Levin if I encountered him today. Maybe he would seem like Wes West—they were both arrogant and ambitious. In Levin, these qualities were leavened with intelligence and an intense, almost painful empathy for his fellow human beings. Still, it must be said . . . Maybe, despite everything, I think kindly of Levin because I knew him when I was easily impressed, because I knew him when I was young.
TWELVE
In May, just before Ruby’s tenth birthday, I happened to see Wes West leaving his office. He was heading toward Market Square, and I, in the opposite direction, Schiele’s Flowers—I was meeting a wedding couple there, Edward Reed and Eduardo Ontiveros, who went by Reed and Eddie. Reed was a landscape architect—the flowers at his wedding were going to be a serious business; he wanted what he referred to as “architectonic topiaries,” and Schiele would be up to it. Eddie was a teacher at Franny’s school, and Reed and Eddie had both attended the Lincoln-Wests’ winter wedding, and they had liked my work. I think I had also won their favor by not being overly amused that they had variations on the same first name. “People are so annoying about this. Yes, we have the same name,” Eddie said when we were discussing the announcements. “We are men with the same name. This happens. It is not so amazing or hilarious.” The wedding was set for August. The theme was WASP fiesta.
By the way, Maine had legalized same-sex marriage the prior December, and early signs were that same-sex weddings were going to more than double my business. I was even thinking of hiring a few full-time employees.
So, Wes West was on his cell phone, and he was gesturing and projecting as if he were in a play and no one else in the world existed but him. Or, we did exist, but we were meant to be the audience for his call, for his impressive real estate acumen, or some such. He was walking right toward me, and I was walking right toward him. And I could tell that he hadn’t seen me, but if he had, he wasn’t going to move over. He hadn’t yielded for the dog walker with the tangle of leashes. He hadn’t yielded for the woman with the baby carriage and the toddler. He hadn’t yielded for the older man coming out of the post office. He hadn’t yielded for the two teenage lovers who had arms linked. Why would he yield for me?
I was feeling jaunty that afternoon so I decided to test Ruby’s hypothesis. What happens if a person comes toward you and you just don’t move? The day was warm, the streets were mercifully ice-free, and so I kept walking and swinging my arms. I walked right toward him until we were about to crash into each other.
Our noses were perhaps six inches apart, but I kept coming.
He moved.
III
Thirteen, or a Few Interesting Facts About Maine
Ruby
To: “Fatima” [email protected]
From: “Ruby”
[email protected]
Date: September 8
Re: Your American Pen Pal, Friends Around the World Pen Pal Program
Dear Fatima,
Allow me to introduce myself! My name is Ruby Miranda Young. I am thirteen years old and I am in the eighth grade at Allison Springs Middle School, which is in the great state of Maine, “the Pine Tree State.” Do you eat lobster in Indonesia? A fun factoid about Maine is that most of the lobster in the United States comes from, you guessed it, Maine! I like lobster, but I do not love it. My mom says I do not love lobster because it has become “blasé” to me. “Blasé” means that you act bored because something is too familiar. My mom also says if you use a new word in a sentence three times you will remember it: 1. The word “blasé” is not “blasé” to me.
2. Having a pen pal from Indonesia is not “blasé.”
3. It is “blasé” to eat lunch in the cafeteria alone, and I have only been in eighth grade one week, and it is already “blasé.”
4. BONUS ROUND: My mom finds lobster to be the opposite of “blasé.”