Out tending her tomato plant, Joanna was struck with what seemed, at that moment, to be a brilliant idea: she could move out onto the balcony. The warmer, dryer weather made it possible to spend more time outside—she practically lived out there anyway. As her bare hands loosened the soil along the edges of the pot, she took in an invigorating breath, inhaling the sharp scent of the plant, the compost’s complex odor of damp leaves and earth.
Already in June the plant was rewarding her diligence. Its delicate yellow flowers shriveled up, revealing hard, green marbles: her first tomatoes. By July or maybe August the tomatoes would sustain her, starting with a Bloody Mary for breakfast. For lunch, a salad of sliced tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil. (She needed to get a basil plant!) For dinner, gazpacho. (And a cucumber plant—it could curl around the railings of the balcony.) A blender, electric skillet, and a hot pot would allow her to cook everything right out in the open air. And with a cot and a sleeping bag, she could sleep under the stars. When the rains started she’d have to construct a kind of large eave or overhang—
“Joanna?” Her sister was standing in the doorway. Joanna had been sitting on the balcony floor—her legs around this giant terra cotta pot, her hands in the soil—for the last five minutes. She cleared her throat and patted down the dirt. Laura was staring at her. “Well?”
Joanna blinked up at her sister, trying to retrieve the thread of conversation she’d dropped while daydreaming about relocating to the balcony. It wasn’t even a romantic balcony overlooking vineyards or an elaborate yard. It looked out over the top of the building next door. The lids of dumpsters clanged shut in the alleyway three stories below. A few phone lines crisscrossed in front of what would be her view.
“You’re still coming, right?”
Joanna sighed. “You know me and parties.” She yawned. “And I’m really tired. I didn’t sleep too well last night.”
“Please,” said Laura. “Just this once. You owe me.”
“He’s not cheap with the liquor,” Joanna said with admiration. She had expected a cooler full of beer. Maybe a keg in the bathtub. This was top-shelf stuff, plus mint picked from the front yard and arranged in a glass of water. The limes were cut into half-moons and assembled in a small bowl. “Nice touch,” she added.
“Are you sure you should be drinking that?”
Joanna raised her glass up for her sister’s approval. “It’s mostly ice and tonic water. Relax. I can handle this.” Laura issued a half-confident nod, and drifted into the crowd in search of Ted Michalski. This party marked their fourth date, and it would be a test of sorts, for both of them. Laura would see how he lived, meet his friends. And Ted would finally make the acquaintance of Laura’s little sister.
Joanna made her escape to the bathroom and locked the door. It was in the bathroom that she knew Laura would end up marrying this man. The hexagonal tiles on the floor gleamed. He’d folded his towels in thirds and draped them over what looked like very expensive towel bars. Peeking in the medicine cabinet, she found bottles of multi-vitamins and containers of dental floss arranged with precision. Laura was always tidying up the contents of the cupboards or sorting her socks by color and heft. She and Ted could spend hours together, organizing things.
When she ventured back into the party, her sister was nowhere to be found, and Joanna parked herself by the built-in bookshelves near the fireplace—familiar territory. Many a college house party had found her sipping Cokes and studying the book or CD collections—as if by picking up a copy of Plato’s Republic and narrowing her eyes intelligently, some dashing philosophy student would approach her and engage her in a passionate discussion about justice. She’d pass the time trying to come up with insightful witticisms that referenced the allegory of the cave.
Ted’s titles revealed an eclectic reading repertoire: old college text books, some of the classics (high school required reading?), a large collection of graphic novels. He subscribed to the New Yorker. She and her sister read it cover to cover every week. He also had a large stack of old Sports Illustrated magazines. Maybe he got it for the swimsuit issue.
An oversized paperback caught her eye. She turned it over in her hands.
“Put that book down,” commanded a stern, deep voice.
She jumped up, nearly spilling her drink all over herself.
The grim reaper stared her down. That was her first thought: a skeleton peering out from a black, hooded cape. His bony fingers reached for the book, slowly, as if she were a suicide risk and he was attempting to take a loaded gun from her twitchy fingers. He snatched the offending object and issued an audible sigh of relief. Crisis averted.
Her initial shock passed, and she put her imagination in check. This was not the grim reaper. This was a guy with the black hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head. Big dark eyes—not so threatening now—stared out from under a fringe of straight brown hair that swept across his forehead. He was pale and thin but not really skeletal. “What’s your problem?” she asked him.
“Sorry.” He extended his hand for her to shake. “Malcolm.”
She took his hand in hers. It was dry and cool—papery. “Joanna Robinson,” she said, withdrawing her hand. Instead of withdrawing his, too, depositing it back by his side or in his pocket where it belonged, he extended it further, closer to her. He reached for her stomach, rested his whole hand on it, gently.
She jumped back, this time careful not to spill her drink. “What is wrong with you?”
“You’re not pregnant,” he said.
“What?”
“Expecting?” He gestured towards the book he still had in his hand. It was What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Why on earth did Ted have a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, snuggled right next to To Kill a Mockingbird and Sin City on his bookshelf? This question had inspired her to pick it up in the first place. She had been examining the hugely pregnant woman smiling beatifically on the faded, pastel cover when Malcolm had interrupted her.
She shook her head. She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.
Malcolm was smiling, looking less like the Grim Reaper and more like just a twenty-something guy at a house party. “Never read this,” he said, placing it back on the shelf and patting it like a little dog. “It’s alarmist. It will give you a guilt trip about eating so much as a bagel.”
“Well, I’m not pregnant.”
“Future reference, then.”
“So … you have kids?” Why else would this guy, who could not possibly be out of his twenties, have read What to Expect When You’re Expecting? To impress women at parties by dazzling them with his knowledge of the reproductive system? It seemed unlikely.
“Believe me, Joanna,” Malcolm said. “I have never sired—nor do I have the desire to sire—a child.”
She was spared having to come up with a reply when a drunken blonde girl threw her arm around Malcolm and lured him back into a group of revelers, leaving Joanna standing at the bookshelves, temporarily rooted to her place on the hardwood floor.
Fifteen minutes later, a new drink in her hand, she exited through the back door and stepped out onto the deck. She saw Laura then, leaning against the railing next to a sandy-haired guy, laughing. She recognized her sister’s companion at once—he was the guy she’d passed in the hallway a few weeks earlier. So this was Ted. Laura stopped laughing, placed her hand on his arm. She leaned close to him and said something. Ted watched her face, transfixed.
Laura caught Joanna’s eye and gestured for her to join them.
“You have a beautiful house,” Joanna told Ted.
Laura raised her eyebrows, undoubtedly surprised by her younger sister’s sudden ability to make polite small talk. Joanna smiled.
“Thanks,” Ted said. “I can’t take all the credit. Malcolm did a lot of the renovations. He built this deck.” He gave the railing an affectionate pat.
“Malcolm is Ted’s roommate,” Laura explained. She scanned the crowd—a few people leaned against the deck railing, drinking and laughing. No Malcolm. “Malcolm Martin … kind of thin, big eyes?”
“Oh yes. I met him.” His name sounded like the beginning of a tongue twister.
Ted’s face took on a wistful expression. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him. For two years!”
Joanna tried not to smile. It was cute, the way Ted wore his heart on his sleeve. Her sister needed someone like this. Earnest, sincere.
She excused herself by expressing an interest in the yard. She walked down the steps and onto the grass. She was starting to piece it all together. Her sister had mentioned the purpose of this party—it was a going-away party for Ted’s housemate. Ted’s housemate was joining the Peace Corps. Malcolm certainly didn’t seem like the Peace Corps type. Peace Corps volunteers should be strong, full of enthusiasm for bettering the world. They should be brimming with optimism, a sort of do-gooder charm. Was Malcolm a do-gooder? He was, apparently, a carpenter. Maybe he planned to build shelters. Or decks.
In Portland it wasn’t uncommon for tenants to let weeds take over their yards. But Ted—and Malcolm’s—backyard was as neat as the medicine cabinet. A flagstone pathway cut through the lawn. Lavender, rosemary, and mint grew along the edge of the fence. And a vegetable patch! She restrained herself from running her fingers along the stems of their tomato plants. They were spindlier than hers, flowering but not yet bearing fruit. This pleased her. She may not have a steady job as a temp, she may not have her own place to live, but she had a very sturdy tomato plant.
Next to the garden beds stood a wooden structure she had at first taken for a shed. Upon closer inspection she saw it was a covered bench—a little hut with a corrugated tin roof, tucked into a grove of bamboo that separated Ted’s house from the neighbor’s. She sat down and scooted back, pulling her legs in so she disappeared into the hut. The sky grew dark and the air turned chilly. It was still June, not quite summer. By next month the warmth of the sun would toast the lawns, dry out the evening air.
The house seemed far away from her spot on the bench. Inside, people’s heads bopped along to music she couldn’t hear, their faces indistinguishable. Forget her sister’s balcony. She could live in a hut. Just a simple hut in the back of someone’s house. That’s all she’d really need. Her eyelids felt heavy. She let them sink down.
“There you are.” Malcolm stepped into the bench hut and sat down next to her. Her eyes flew open. She didn’t acknowledge him; he didn’t seem to be expecting her to.
They sat gazing out at the yard for several minutes without saying anything. A breeze blew through the bamboo; the leaves at the top rustled. Then he looked over at her. “Your sister told me all about you.”
She stared back at him, her mouth open.
“She said I should talk to you about teaching English.”
Her heart rate slowed down. “Teaching English?” For a moment she imagined her sister had betrayed her; told everyone about her recent failures. “Did my sister tell you that I left early?” Joanna asked him.
He shrugged. “She just said I should talk to you.”
“I did a terrible, terrible thing.”
“You killed someone.”
Joanna didn’t crack a smile. She inhaled sharply before speaking. “I got this job teaching English in this tiny little town. Two-hundred and fifty kids! I took off. Abandoned my post.”
He was frowning. “That’s it?”
She did smile at that. “It’s okay if you never want to talk to me again.” Her bare arm brushed against the sleeve of Malcolm’s sweatshirt.
Malcolm stretched out and slung his arm over her shoulder, drawing her in. “Come here,” he said. “I’m cold.”
She tensed up for a moment, then relaxed in his bony arms. “You’re the one wearing a jacket.” She felt so comfortable all of a sudden. Not too cold at all—the perfect temperature. She let her eyes close again. He shivered and pulled her closer.
An hour—or was it two hours?—later, she woke to find herself curled up on the bench. Her head rested on her hands, her legs bent to fit on the seat. Her body unfolded. No one was in the backyard or out on the deck. Only one light was on in the house—the kitchen. The air felt cooler now, laced with a sweet, metallic scent. She pushed her arms through the sleeves of her jacket and stretched her aching limbs. The sleeves were a bit too long and worn out at the cuffs. This was not her jacket—it was a black hooded sweatshirt, smelling of wood shavings and soap. She zipped it up to her chin and headed towards the house.
Malcolm was sitting at the kitchen table playing solitaire. The rest of the house was dark and quiet. “What time is it?” she asked, her eyes adjusting to the light in the kitchen. He was slapping down cards three at a time. “Is my sister here?” For a panicked moment, she wondered if Laura had left her here on her own.
“Damn it!” Malcolm threw down his cards. “I can’t win.” He looked up at her. “She went to sleep.”
“She went home?”
He tilted his head in the direction of the bedrooms upstairs. “With Ted.”
“Oh.” This seemed so out of character for her sister.
“I told her I’d take care of you,” he said. “Come here.” He patted the seat next to him at the table. He began shuffling the deck of cards.
She sat down.
Malcolm dealt the cards. “Rummy,” he said.
She took her hand without comment and began sorting by suit. They played in silence.
“You and your sister look nothing alike,” Malcolm said when the final cards went down. She nodded. She heard this a lot. Laura was petite with straight, blonde hair—the kind of hair that is almost white during childhood and turns golden as the years go by. She had a thin nose and a red mouth, just like their beautiful, pale mother. Joanna was a good four inches taller than Laura, and because of this, people often mistook her for the older sister. With hazel eyes and dark brown hair—almost black—people sometimes asked her if she was Italian or Latin American. “I’m just a mutt,” she would usually answer.
When the girls were young, people used to come up to their mother and ask if Joanna was adopted. “Just switched at birth,” her mother would reply. It was meant as a jab—a “mind your own beeswax” type of response. But Joanna didn’t really mind. She enjoyed thinking about it, actually. Switched at birth. Nothing so exciting had happened to her since.
Malcolm looked over at her, then reached up and ran a finger down the side of her face, slowly. “Your sister is more beautiful than you.”
She looked into his dark eyes. Part of her wanted to storm out of the house. Another part of her realized that his comment didn’t bother her. It was true, wasn’t it?
“But your face is much more interesting.” He took her hand in his. “Come on. It’s time to sleep.”
This was the kind of flattery that worked at three o’clock in the morning, or whatever time it was.
“You know we just met.” She was sitting on the edge of his bed, an island in a sea of boxes and suitcases.
Malcolm sat down next to her. “That’s my sweatshirt.” He unzipped it for her, nudged it off her shoulders. It fell off and landed on the floor.
“I can’t wear this to bed.” Her heart knocked against her ribcage, though she wasn’t scared so much as nervous and—she had to admit—curious to find out what would happen next.
Malcolm went over to one of his suitcases and rooted around. He took out a gray T-shirt, neatly folded, and brought it back to the bed.
“Hands up,” he said, lifting her blouse off her as if he were undressing a child. He pulled the gray T-shirt over her head and she poked her arms through the arm holes. “There.”
Very business-like. She still had her bra on; she wondered if she should unclasp it, take it out through the sleeves. They sat at the edge of the bed, looking at each other.
“Malcolm,” she said. She would thank him for the shirt, then find a nice couch to curl up on downstairs.
He leaned in and kissed her gently. She was too surprised to kiss back, at first. But when he kissed her again, she responded—even reached up to touch his face. She had no idea what she was doing. She wasn’t at all drunk, so that didn’t explain it. They wrapped their arms around each other, collapsed onto the bed. He felt heavier on top of her than she had anticipated, more substantial.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said into her ear, his voice so low she could barely make out the syllables. He kissed her hard on the mouth before she could reply.
“I know,” she said forty minutes later.
“Listen …” He ran his hands down her bare back. (Somehow he’d solved her problem with the bra. The gray T-shirt, too, was lost in a tangle of covers. But she had stopped him when he’d reached down to undo the buttons of her jeans.) “I think we should sleep together.”
She laughed. “We’ve known each other—what? Eight hours?” She began calculating but lost her train of thought when he tipped her head back to kiss her throat.
“Eight hours, is that all?” he said. “It feels like years.”
“What a line,” Joanna said, but she knew what he meant.
“You’ll forget me otherwise,” he said into her neck.
She pressed her body against his. Maybe this is what she needed—to succumb to her desires, to sleep with a total stranger the night before he left for another country. And it didn’t feel like kissing a stranger at all. Maybe that’s what every lonely person told herself in times like these, but she didn’t think so.
But then she shook her head. “Too bad we didn’t meet months ago.” She sat up and began patting around the top of the covers.
Malcolm was looking up at her, smiling. “You’re so cute,” he said. “What are you looking for?”
“That gray T-shirt.”
He pulled her back down to him and she nestled against him. “You don’t need it.” He kissed her on the tip of the nose, then got out of bed to close the curtains over the open window. The curtains billowed up with cool, rain-tinged air, then deflated. He shivered and slipped back in bed. She pulled the sheets over them, settled into his arms, and closed her eyes.
“If we’d met months ago, I’d make you my girlfriend,” he said, his voice drowsy. “If you were my girlfriend, you’d sleep with me.”
She smiled. The hours weighed in on her. She was tired. “Yes. Every night. Maybe sometimes during the day, too.”
“I’d have to work.”
“We’d lose our jobs,” she said. “We’d be unemployed. We’d have all day to devote to each other.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Write me while you’re gone.” The room was getting lighter, even with the curtains shut. In a few hours, she’d leave. She’d go back to the balcony, check on the infinitesimal growth of her tomato plant—another tiny sucker shooting between the stems, another yellow flower withering away.
“I will,” he said, and they drifted asleep with their limbs tangled together.