CHAPTER 15
I spent Monday night doing chores around my apartment. I don’t know how to describe it, but doing laundry, paying bills, making sure everything in my refrigerator is still within its use-by date . . . those things connect me to my body. I feel somehow more real when I do them, if that makes any sense.
My phone did that little jingle when I have a text coming in. My first instinct was not to look. I figured it could be Mimi. I mean, she told me she didn’t have her phone, but that girl’s resourceful. Maybe she’d be apologizing. Or explaining. Maybe she’d ignore our whole scene and ask me if I wanted company for a Breaking Bad binge. But I was in no mood to hear from her, no matter what her motivation. I may have cooled down enough to be past my threat to contact the police, but I still didn’t want to hear from her. I didn’t want anything from her at all, at least not until I was sure what her end game was.
But the part of me wanting it to be John checking in to see what I was doing made me look. I’m happy to say I got the payoff I was hoping for. His text was simple.
Why aren’t we together? Aren’t couples supposed to be doing stuff in the evening?
He called us a couple. I know it probably makes me sound like a twelve-year-old girl swooning over some mop-headed acne-pocked singer in a boy band, but his text made me smile. A real, cheek-busting, eye-crinkling, red-blushing smile.
I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. I didn’t want to look too eager to return his text. I remembered what Mimi told me about men loving a good chase. I ran over my response options, and finally settled on one I hoped would set just the right tone.
Sorry we can’t hang out. Armando’s here. He’s teaching me the tango.
Those little bubbles started churning on my phone right away. You know the ones I mean? The ones that show you the other person is composing his text right then and there?
Tell him if he steps on your toes he’ll have to answer to me. And if he tries anything other than dancing he’ll answer to my whole damned posse.
I think I may have laughed out loud. Right there in my kitchen. I remember looking up from my phone to make sure no one was watching. I was alone, of course; it was sort of a knee-jerk reaction to how fun I thought his flirtation was. Maybe a part of me was hoping someone would have been there so I could share it. I texted him back. This time I was braver.
How about I promise to teach you every smooth move I learn from my handsome Latin lover?
Again, I didn’t have to wait to see those bubbles flashing.
That sounds like a plan. I’m playing hooky tomorrow. How about you do the same? I’ll pick you up around eleven. We can go for a walk before I take you out for lunch. It’s about time I get your address, by the way.
I leaned back into my chair and sipped my tea. I liked John’s style. We’d already had a date where we each drank a bit too much. He followed that up with a breakfast. This time he was opting for a midday get-together. Was he trying to see me in all different lights? I texted him my address, said good night, and told him I was looking forward to tomorrow. I saw the bubbles in action for one last time.
I’ll be knocking on your door at eleven. Please answer. Good night.
I called Rosie, told her that based on her advice I’d like to take the next day off, and sealed the deal by telling her Brian wouldn’t be in until Wednesday. She said she’d be glad to cover for me, told me to have a great day, and reminded me of my promise to tell her everything about my time with John.
For the second night in a row I had no trouble sleeping.
* * *
Sure enough, John was standing on my stoop when he said he would be. I’d been awake since seven. I’d had my usual breakfast of coffee and fruit, then set about getting ready. He’d told me we’d go for a walk and then out to lunch. After trying on a couple different outfits I settled on a pair of pink plaid shorts, turquoise tank top, and hiking sandals. I drew my hair up into a high ponytail. At the wine bar, he had mentioned how much he liked my hair when I wore it down around my shoulders, but today was going to be another warm one. If we walked any distance at all, I’d need the hair off my neck.
“You look like you should be on a magazine cover.” That was the first thing he said when I opened the door.
“I might be flattered if I knew what magazine you had in mind,” I said. “For all I know you may be talking about Zombie Today.” I stepped aside so he could come in.
He gave my apartment the once-over. Of course I’d taken an hour that morning to make sure the place was in show-off shape. I even snipped a few hydrangea and day lilies from Toni Streckert’s garden next door. She was always offering me cuttings, and the pink and green color combo looked great on my breakfast nook table. Even in that cheap water pitcher I bought for fifty cents when the library hosted a community-wide garage sale.
“Your place is nice,” he said. “It looks like you. Comfortable and lovely.”
I fought the urge to respond with a self-deprecating jab. Instead I thanked him and asked if he wanted a glass of iced tea.
“No! Let’s get out of here. I’m cooped up in an office or study room way too many hours every day. And you spend too much time in that library. Today we play. Let’s get while the getting’s good. Stretch our legs. Move our bodies. Celebrate the fact we don’t owe anybody one moment of our time for the next”—he looked at his watch—“twenty-one hours.”
“Sounds perfect. Which way are we headed?” I slipped my phone into the pocket of my shorts and grabbed my keys.
“How would you feel about an urban hike? I was hoping we could walk downtown. State Street up to the square. Then maybe Graze for lunch. How’s that sound?”
The students had recently returned to the university after summer break. State Street would be filled with anxious undergrads trying to look cool sitting at outdoor cafés. There’d be street musicians and sidewalk artists. And since this was Madison, there’d likely be some sort of protest or demonstration on at least one street corner.
“Sounds terrific.” I pointed to the door and locked my place up behind us.
“You don’t carry a purse?” he asked.
I patted my pocket. “Phone, a little cash, and ChapStick. Can’t think of anything else I need.”
John stood still and looked at me, long enough for me to notice but not so long that I felt uncomfortable. “I like a woman who travels light. You, Tess Kincaid. I like you.”
I don’t know if I have the words to tell you how I felt hearing that. Not that any of that matters now. But then it did. I started walking in the direction of downtown. I was eager to begin our stolen day together. I guess I didn’t realize how fast I was moving.
“Whoa! Slow down there, partner.” John beckoned me back to him. “Like I said, we got twenty-one hours. Let’s enjoy every minute.”
And I did. For a time, at least. We talked about a lot of stuff as we walked through the neighborhood toward the bike path. I asked him about his experiences growing up.
“Well,” he said. “You already know I’m from Green Bay. Town’s big enough for a kid to always find ways to get in trouble. Small enough that everybody knows it two minutes later. And let me tell you, nobody wasted a second telling my parents what I’d been up to, either.”
“I imagine the Packers played a role.”
An exaggerated look of surprise crossed his face. “A role? You imagine? Tess, where I come from, Vince Lombardi is a saint. I mean a real one. Without even thinking I could rattle off the names of at least thirty people I know who truly believe a prayer sent up to Saint Vince at just the right moment is the sole reason we made the playoffs last year. My best friend in high school, David Goronsky . . . everybody called him Butchie . . . his parents’ house was less than a block from Lambeau. We’d watch every game in Butchie’s basement. When the Pack scored, the whole house would shake from the roar of the crowd. Like a fighter jet was getting ready to land in the backyard.”
“And what would happen when Green Bay lost?”
We walked several yards before he stopped. His brow furrowed and he put his hands on his hips. After a few seconds, he shook his head. “I’m sure it’s happened. But for the life of me, I can’t recall one loss. Guess that’s the kind of trauma a dedicated cheesehead doesn’t let linger in his memory banks.”
We laughed. When he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me back into the walk, it seemed like the most natural thing. Like of course we’d walk along holding each other. He’d pull me closer when a bike passed. We’d break apart when we had to negotiate our way around a slow-moving group of mommies pushing strollers. But once we were clear, his arm would go back around my waist, his thumb hooked inside my belt loop.
John told me about his dad, a machinist at a local paper mill. “His name is Arthur. Arch to everybody in Green Bay. He says he’s going to retire next year. I’ll believe that when I see it. Wait ’til you meet him. He’ll be seventy years old on his next birthday, but he looks twenty years younger. Still splits a cord of wood every spring so my mother can keep a fire going all winter long.”
My spine stiffened at John’s casual reference to my meeting his father. I don’t think he noticed. He went on walking and talking. By the time we got to the mall at the foot of State Street I’d learned his mother’s name was Leona. She worked part-time in the cafeteria at the same high school John and his brothers attended. The same school where John once taught math.
“She was disappointed when I quit,” he said. “Used to say our working together made her the envy of all the ladies in her circle. None of them got to see their adult sons every day. She understood, though. She’d been at the school long enough to see the decline.”
“Are they hoping you’ll go back to Green Bay after law school?”
The look on his face as he thought about his answer made me wonder if he missed his hometown as much as his parents obviously missed him. “Green Bay’s a great sports town,” he said. “But it’s not a big sports town. If I want a career in sports law, I need a bigger market. My parents support my dreams. My brothers’, too. Green Bay’s their place to grow old, not ours.”
John told me about his three older brothers. Allen, the oldest, was an IT specialist in Minneapolis. He was married to Janice, whom no one in the family particularly liked, but they all tolerated out of love for Allen. “My brother would make a great dad,” he said. “But Janice is devoted to what she calls her retail career. She’s been a three-day-a-week cashier at Target since she was in high school. She says kids and careers don’t mix.”
Donald was the second son born to Arch and Leona Rappaport. “He works the iron boats on the Great Lakes. Lives in Duluth. Spends weeks at a time on the water. Then comes home to Richard and their three cocker spaniels. Then there’s Mike. He’s two years older than me. Military man.” John’s smile was more warning than joy. “Great guy. But don’t get him started on politics or you’re in for a lecture. Mike’s married to Amy. Everybody loves Amy. And we’re all thrilled that come December Amy and Mike will present my mom and dad with their first grandchild. My folks are buying out every toy store in a thirty-mile radius. Mike and Amy are stationed in New Jersey at the moment. Mom will go spend a few weeks with them after the baby’s born.”
State Street served up its usual carnival as we walked east toward the capitol. Skateboarders and bikers rolled down the pedestrian mall. It was a weekday lunch hour and the sidewalks were filled with the kind of people that make Madison unique. Here, a person sped by on a unicycle. There, a woman trotted next to an oversized Great Dane with a head the exact height as its owner. A group of women, obviously faculty members, ambled down the street in front of us, giving us full access to their conversation weighing the merits of online learning versus traditional lecture-style instruction. Anyone walking in groups had to talk loud to be heard over the din of bus traffic and music. Those walking alone kept their eyes straight ahead, earbuds filling their skulls with a soundtrack of their own choosing. I wondered what they were listening to. What could possibly be more entertaining than State Street on a warm summer day?
And as we walked John held my hand. We didn’t say much. Every now and then we’d stop by a store window and check out the displays. But I thought we both enjoyed just being with each other and watching the show. I know I did.
Once we got to the square, things shifted to a more professional scene. Men and women in suits too formal for such lovely weather scurried about the walks surrounding the capitol building. John and I walked counterclockwise around the majestic building and made our way to Graze. The hostess told us there’d be an hour wait for an outside table. John asked me if I’d be all right eating inside. To tell you the truth, I preferred it. The sun was high, and the outdoor patio seemed more like a place to grill your lunch rather than eat it. We were shown to a great table, where we could see the entire capitol building framed by two-story windows.
“I’m not drinking,” he told me when the hostess asked us what she could bring us from the bar. “But I’ve heard they make a great Bloody Mary if you’re so inclined.”
The walk back to my place would be too long for me to consider anything alcoholic. I asked for an ice water, and John ordered the same.
“I’ve never eaten here,” I said as I looked over the menu. “What’s good?”
“This is only my second time here.” John strained to see the specials marked on the chalkboard by the entrance. “I had the burger. It was great. I think you can’t go wrong with anything, actually.”
A hamburger sounded good to me. I ordered mine with cheese and bacon. John asked for the salmon pasta special. “And we’ll have the cookies and milk for dessert,” he said. Our waitress promised it wouldn’t be long and left us with a small relish plate to nibble on while we waited.
“This is fun,” John said. “But I’ve been blabbing on about me and my family. Tell me all about you. What’s happening with your look-alike? Mimi, right?”
I nodded. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again. I did what you suggested.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“I took to heart what you said, that all I had was her word for things. I asked her for a picture of her mother.”
John drank his water but kept his eyes on me. “That must have been tough. Did it look like your mom?”
“That’s just it. She couldn’t come up with one photo. When I asked her to show me a picture on her phone, she stammered out some story about how she left her cell back in Boston. Said it was because she was so scatterbrained with everything going on, but that’s hard for me to believe. I mean, who forgets their phone when they’re traveling? Especially to a job interview. I told her to leave me alone. Then I went home and made sure she hadn’t robbed me of anything.”
“Why is this the first I’m hearing about this? So she’s not staying with you anymore?” His tone was insistent. “When did this happen?”
“Saturday.”
He put the radish he was about to eat back down on the table. “You’re telling me you haven’t seen Mimi in two days? Where is she? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How about because it’s no big deal?” I felt my defenses lock back into place. “I met her. It was weird. It got weirder. I asked her to back off, and I don’t care where she is. End of story.”
He hesitated, then nodded. Finally he smiled, and the furrows in his brow disappeared. “You’re right. I’m sorry if I sounded like an intrusive parent.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. “You inspire the protective side of me, I guess.”
The waitress came with our food, and I pulled my hand free to make room on the table. John and I commented on how great each other’s plate looked. We took our first few bites and could only talk about how wonderful it all tasted. I was starting to relax again. Then he steered the conversation back to the personal.
“We’ve talked about your mom.” His voice was soft. “I’m sorry she hurt you like that. Tell me about your dad. What’s he like?”
My steel vault of self-defense slammed closed the way it always does whenever people ask about my father. “He keeps to himself mostly.”
“Never remarried?” John stole a French fry off my plate.
I shook my head. “Never dated after my mom left. I guess raising a daughter all by himself was enough to handle.”
“What’s he do for a living? Is he a lover of books like you?”
The room felt hotter. As if the sun coming through the tall windows were turning the whole restaurant into a greenhouse. I took a long sip of icy water and came up with the simplest lie that allowed me to dodge the real answer to his question. The same lie my father tells himself.
“He’s kind of retired. Has been for years.”
“Oh?” John seemed surprised. “How old is he? I mean, you’re only twenty-nine. Did he retire early, or was he older when you were born?”
“My dad’s fifty-eight. I guess you can say he’s lucky to be able to have this time of freedom while he’s still relatively young.”
John seemed to buy it. “That’s cool. What did he retire from?”
My heart was racing. Any true answer I gave would only bring more questions. And I never liked answering questions about my father and the reasons for his failed career. He’d given me so much. The very least I could do was protect his privacy. Not to mention my own. I didn’t particularly like explaining what a burden I’d been to him through the years.
“He was a professor.” I wiped my mouth and set my napkin down. I wasn’t hungry anymore. “Here at the university.”
“And he’s retired? Already?” John’s curiosity was piqued. “How’s that work?”
“An opportunity came up.” I wondered if I could tell pieces of the truth without revealing too much. “My grandparents died and left him a trust.”
He pulled another fry off my plate and smiled as he ate it. “So I’m dating an heiress, am I? It must have been some trust to let him retire so early. What did he teach?”
I sounded cold. I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean to, but I wanted to stop talking about my dad. “Listen, why don’t you list all your questions about my father, his career, his funding . . . write them all down. I’ll take it to him and see if he wants me to tell a perfect stranger all the details of his life.”
That stopped John in his tracks. He stared at me for a few seconds, then apologized. Said he didn’t mean to pry. He looked past me. Then he set his fork down and excused himself. “Maybe when I come back I’ll be more polite company. I’m really sorry, Tess. I didn’t mean to push any buttons.”
I never know what to do when I’m alone at a restaurant table. I spent a few moments moving the food around on my plate. Then I turned my attention to the comings and goings of people out on the square. A small group of middle-aged people walked by. They carried signs lamenting what they saw as the latest heavy-handed act by the governor. I could tell from the way their mouths moved they were singing. But even though they were close enough for me to read their banners, the heavy glass separating us kept me from hearing the words. When they passed from view I watched a trio of preteen girls waiting at the bus stop. I remember being intrigued with how physical they each were. Not unlike the girls I saw rolling logs down at the lake. They struck poses and twirled. They rearranged one another’s hair. When their bus arrived they hopped in place, eagerly waiting their turn to board.
When the bus pulled away I realized John had been gone longer than a person might expect for someone using the bathroom. I looked toward the direction he went and didn’t see him. An embarrassing thought came over me. What if I’d been ditched? Had my abrupt reaction to his questions about my dad been enough to scare him off? I looked the other way, toward the door.
That’s when I saw her.
She was leaving the restaurant. I knew that back. I knew that hair. I knew the way she walked.
Mimi Winslow was exiting Graze. I saw her walking fast . . . like I do . . . down the steps. She turned left on the square and disappeared into the crowd.
I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Whoa,” John said as he sat back down. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I watched him as he picked up his fork and twirled another bite of pasta onto it. He smiled as he chewed. My mind raced with dozens of thoughts, none of them soothing.
“Is something wrong, Tess?” John took a drink of water. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and laid it on the table. “I have to go.”
John reached across the table, but I stood before he could touch me.
“What’s going on? Tess, I told you I’m sorry. No more talk about your father, I promise. Please stay.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got to go.”
I left the restaurant without looking back. I headed home.
This time I was oblivious to the magic of State Street.