Desire Lines (19 page)

“I didn’t expect anything,” Kathryn mumbles, but it isn’t true. She did somehow expect that things would be the way they were when she was home for visits, and her mother had made time for her. She hadn’t realized how much things have changed over the years; dropping in for only a few days at a time, she had imagined that what her mother did at holidays—drop everything to attend to her and Josh—was the way it
would be. Her mother always used to be the one pushing for a close relationship; Kathryn was always the one pulling away. Now, suddenly, she realizes what it feels like to be the one with more time and more interest. It’s unsettling; everything is upside down.

Her mother glances at her watch. “You know what? I’d love to finish this conversation, because I think it’s a healthy thing for us to do, but I’ve got a three-o’clock.” She smiles apologetically, but the smile is fleeting, and Kathryn knows her mind is already on other things. “And, sweetie,” she says as Kathryn gets up, “if you have time, would you swing by the cleaners and pick up my linen blazer? I completely forgot about it this morning, and I need it for a meeting tomorrow.” She digs through her purse, and, finding the pink receipt, slips it into Kathryn’s hand. “I’ll try to be home early. Do you have plans tonight?”

Kathryn shakes her head.

“Isn’t there anyone in town you want to see?” she ventures. “What about that nice girl Rachel? You know she’s teaching at Orono on some prestigious fellowship—I guess she won some big award for her dissertation and got it published. And I hear she has a cute little house. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll give her a call,” Kathryn says, easing the conversation to a close. She needs to talk to Rachel anyway, but she’s dreading it. Whatever connection they once had has long been broken, and the string of accomplishments and cute little house that Kathryn, too, has heard about don’t make it any easier.

“I’m very proud of you, Kathryn,” her mother says, cocking her head like a bird.

“For what?”

“For getting out of that marriage and doing what you need to do to nurture yourself. For taking time to heal. I really admire you for that.”

Kathryn starts to respond—she knows her mother is partly in earnest, partly smoothing things over, and partly giving her a pep talk—but she lets it go. “Thanks, Mom,” she says, squeezing her hand. “I’m proud of you, too.”

WHEN KATHRYN GETS
home, the answering machine is blinking. She pushes the button. “Hi, Mrs. Campbell, hi, Kathryn. It’s Jack. Ledbetter. Kathryn, I know it’s not Sunday yet, but I’m wondering how the interviewing is going. I thought maybe we could talk about it, if you—you know—think that might be helpful.” He clears his throat. “Like maybe tonight, if you don’t have anything going on. I was thinking maybe we could—” The machine emits a long beep, and then the next message says, “Five-thirty at the Sea Dog. I’ll be the one wearing a baseball cap.” He laughs, and Kathryn knows why—half the guys there will probably be wearing baseball caps. “I hope you’re coming. I hate drinking alone.”

Chapter 13

W
hen Kathryn gets to the Sea Dog, a dimly lit, fern-filled microbrewery on the bank of the Penobscot, Jack is nowhere to be seen. She sits outside on the deck under a green-and-white striped umbrella and watches the activity on the river and at the tables nearby. Next to her, a man and a very pregnant woman are holding hands. “How about Leonardo? That’s a strong name,” Kathryn overhears the woman say.

The man shakes his head. “I’m holding out for Buck.”

There’s a loud whoop from the other end of the deck, seven or eight college guys raising their pint glasses in a toast.

“I’ll have what they’re having,” Kathryn tells the cute, ponytailed waiter. Is she flirting with him? She isn’t sure.

He smirks. “I don’t think it’s what they’re having—it’s how much. You want a pitcher?”

“I’ll start with a pint,” she says. “What are your specials?”

“Blueberry lager is the feature this week.”

She makes a face.

“Okay, then. How about an India pale ale? Smooth, not too rich, full-bodied.”

She squints up at him. “Sounds nice.”

“One pale ale coming up.” He turns on his heel and goes inside.

She leans back in her chair, closing her eyes, feeling the late-afternoon sun on her eyelids. Since when was Bangor such a happening place, with fancy beers and handsome waiters? A shadow passes in front of her eyes and she opens them to see Jack standing there. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, flopping into a deck chair. “Office bullshit.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “I was enjoying the view.”

He grins. “With your eyes shut?”

“Metaphorically,” she says.

He shrugs off his light jacket. His movements are artless, unstudied; he seems not to notice that anyone might be paying attention. Watching him, she thinks of Paul, who was always so aware of how he was being perceived and what was going on around him. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” he said more than once as they got ready to go out. He always dressed carefully; his leather jacket was thicker than most, imported from Italy; his shirts were washable linen and three-hundred-count cotton. At restaurants he liked to sit with his back against the wall so he could observe the room. One time, Kathryn remembers, when she was telling him about something that had upset her, he held up one finger, and she paused, thinking he had something important to say. Instead he leaned forward, tilting his head to the left, and she realized he was eavesdropping on another couple’s conversation.

Reaching across the table for the menu, Jack scans it quickly, shutting it a moment later with a decisive flap. He looks up and smiles at her. “So,” he says, “really, have you been waiting long?”

“Years,” she says.

The waiter materializes out of nowhere with Kathryn’s beer and takes Jack’s order. “How is it?” he asks Kathryn as she takes a sip.

“You’re right. Nice body,” she says.

“Thought you’d like it,” he says, smiling down at her.

Jack gives him a once-over as he leaves. “No offense, Kathryn, but isn’t he a little young?” he whispers.

“A little young for what?” she asks innocently.

They sit in silence for a moment, looking out at the river. A flat-bottomed houseboat drifts by, with a young boy and an old man out on the deck. The boy waves at the restaurant crowd, and a few scattered people wave back. He holds up a big fish, and several people clap. The old man helps him put the fish in the bucket.

“People are so damn nice here,” Kathryn says.

“No, they’re not.”

“Mmm. But isn’t it lovely to think so?”

Jack shifts in his chair. “To you, maybe. To me it sounds patronizing.”

“What do you mean?” she says, her voice rising defensively.

“I think it’s a way of distancing yourself from this place. If you can say that everybody here is one way or another, you don’t really have to engage it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, really.” He scratches his chin. “How long have you been here, almost three weeks? And have you been in touch with anyone from the group yet?”

“Not yet,” she says. “But I’m going to, soon, for this article.”

“You wouldn’t otherwise?”

“I’m sure I would sooner or later,” she says, though she isn’t sure at all.

“When’s the last time you saw Rachel?”

Kathryn tries to think. She and Rachel had never really been close, though they hung out in the group together a lot senior year. Kathryn had always been a bit intimidated by Rachel—she was so cagey and secretive, and she seemed to know more than she was telling. It was hard to fathom what she was thinking behind her dark, impassive stare.
“She’s a guy’s girl,” Jennifer said once. “It’s that inscrutable poet thing. They love it that they can’t figure her out.”

“It’s been a while,” Kathryn admits. “What about you?”

“Oh, we had dinner last week. Did you know her doctoral dissertation was published by some major university press this spring? And she’s up for tenure next year.”

“I did know,” Kathryn murmurs. “That’s great.” She had received an invitation several months back to a publication party in Rachel’s honor; she sent a bowl from a Virginia pottery maker along with a note offering excuses about why she couldn’t come. She didn’t tell the real reason: that Rachel’s life—her directedness, the ease with which she seemed to achieve what she wanted—seemed a rebuke of her own. “Rachel was always destined to have a brilliant career.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I’m really happy for her.”

“To tell you the truth, I used to think you two might end up together. In high school you were practically joined at the hip.”

He squints into the middle distance—at the porch rail, maybe, or the lettering on someone’s T-shirt. “Nah,” he says. “It wasn’t like that between us. We were just… friends.”

Sensing his hesitation, she presses him. “Always?”

“Mostly always, yeah.”

“Mostly
always …” she says expectantly.

He nods. “We fooled around once. It was a mistake.”

“When?”

“Graduation night.”

“You’re kidding.” She sits up in surprise.

“Nope. We just …” He shrugs almost helplessly. “After the group broke up, we went over to the water tower for a few hours. Anyway, it was a stupid thing to do. She liked Brian, and I didn’t know what I wanted. And then, when we found out a few hours later that Jennifer never made it home, we were really freaked. We pretty much pretended it never happened.”

She listens, studying his eyes. “Have you ever talked about it?”

He shakes his head. “After that night something changed between us. We couldn’t quite look each other in the eye. It shouldn’t have happened anyway, and then the memory of it got wrapped up in what happened to Jennifer. It took a long time to rebuild the friendship, and even then it was never as easy as it was before.”

“So you don’t see much of each other these days.”

“No,” he admits. “I think part of it is just growing up. She’s busy; I’m busy.”

“Is she seeing anyone now?”

He shrugs. “I don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

She takes a sip of her beer. “Anything else you want to tell me? Did you and Rachel concoct some diabolical lovers’ plan to get rid of Jennifer?”

“Hmm,” he says. “That’s an interesting idea. And what would our motive be?”

“Maybe you did it for kicks. You were acting out some obsessive little fantasy that night and you carried it too far.”

“Do I seem obsessive to you?”

She smiles lightly. “That nice guy Ted Bundy didn’t seem obsessive either.”

“Well, it would be an interesting twist,” he says. “Newspaper editor assigns article on murder he committed. It could be a novel.”

“Or a made-for-TV movie. And why do you say it’s a murder? I’m not assuming anything.”

“You think maybe I’m keeping her in a dungeon?”

“Okay, Jack.” She holds her hands up. “Let’s just get off this idea that you did it for a minute. She could be anywhere. She could have run away.”

“She could have,” he says. He sits up and looks around. “Where the hell is my beer? Your boy toy is slacking off.” Flagging down another waiter, he orders again.

When his beer arrives, Kathryn says, “So Rachel is living in Orono. Where is everybody else?”

“You really don’t know?”

She shakes her head.

“That surprises me. I always thought of you as the glue of the group.”

“You did?” she says. “I always thought it was you. Or Jennifer.”

“I wasn’t organized enough to do the legwork that would’ve required. And Jennifer was the queen bee. You were the one who brought us all together.”

“I was?” She tries to remember. It had just seemed natural, the way they gravitated toward each other freshman year, but now that she thinks about it she probably was the one who made it happen. Through her, two separate clusters of people came together: Brian and Rachel and Jack had been friends at Fifth Street Middle School; Kathryn and the twins had attended Garland Street. The first semester of ninth grade, Kathryn and Brian were lab partners in a biology class. Kathryn introduced him to Will and Jennifer, though, as it turned out, Brian already knew Jennifer from an after-school theater group they’d both belonged to the previous year. And Brian brought them all to meet his friends Rachel and Jack.

“You Fifth Streeters were so different from us,” Kathryn says. “It’s a miracle we became friends at all.”

She’s joking, but there’s some truth in it. Garland Street Middle School was a tougher place than the more homogeneous Fifth Street. Garland Street kids came to the high school talking about grain alcohol and blow jobs and heavy-metal bands. Fifth Street kids were more sheltered and more straitlaced, and they tended to stick together like nervous sheep around a pack of wolves. Eventually some of the more adventurous Fifth Street kids ventured over to the dark side and were corrupted, poisoning the entire group. It was a natural process, but exposure to Garland Street hastened it. Even when the class seemed fully integrated, senior year, prejudices lingered. Down deep, the Garland Street kids still found
the Fifth Streeters a little callow and naive, and the Fifth Streeters thought the Garland Streeters were slightly seedy and even dangerous.