Early Decision (36 page)

“Star?” asked William.

“Yeah, a geometric star,” she said, showing off a bit. “I used the five points as a metaphor, to explain my ideas.”

“Sounds terrific,” said William. It occurred to Anne that he was beginning to understand—Duke was as high, higher even than Sadie could reach; to encourage her to think for herself would cost her four years at a top university. Why not open the door when she had the key?

William said, generously, “But you must be excited about Duke, though, anyway, right? How great to be able to go there!”

“Not really,” Sadie admitted. “I don't really want to go.”

“Then why are you applying?”

“Because it's the best place for me.”

She wasn't wrong. Not that there wouldn't have been a better fit for her college years—but that the Sadie who could have pursued that school was not the Sadie sitting there before them. She'd never gotten out of the gate, that one.

“So hang on,” William said. “You're over here because your parents are making you rewrite an essay you liked to apply to a college you don't even want to go to?”

“That's not really fair.” Sadie was looking out Anne's window, but it was backed in city grime and at night there was nothing to see.

“I agree.”

“No, I mean, to them. You're not being fair to my parents. They are—well, let me tell you. My father is a lawyer. Big-time. He spends every day fighting in the courts for people who are wronged by bigger people. People who are hurt by doctors or hospitals or big companies. It's his passion, to help people find truth and justice. My mom, she's like this guru for women all over the world. She's on the TV and radio and all over the place. She helps women who are stuck in their lives. My parents have helped so many people. And I'm only seventeen. They know what's best for me.”

William was nodding. Finally he said, “So what you feel is wrong. About Duke, at least.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Wow. I'm so sorry.”

“Why?” she asked. “I'm so lucky!”

Anne watched him give up. He studied Sadie, his mouth slightly open, his manicured hands quiet in his lap.

“So anyway, I'm off,” she said, and got up. She retrieved her coat from Anne's table and buttoned herself in. “I'll just submit the star essay, okay?” She turned to William. “And I'm really sorry about what you're having to deal with; that really sucks. Maybe you can, like, come stay at my place if you have nowhere else to go. I could ask my mom.”

William stood behind her. “No, thanks,” he said.

“You sure? We have a guest floor. And you could just be yourself, no need to pretend not to be gay. Anyway, if you change your mind—”

“I didn't pretend,” said William. “That's the problem.”

“Whatever,” Sadie said. “I offered.” She unbolted Anne's door. William's questioning had unsettled her, and she was finished thinking now. Flustered, Anne reached to open the door for her, feeling she'd failed again. Mitchell scrambled to his feet. William sprang up as though he'd had another thought, but she cut him off before he could speak.

“My parents are really great,” Sadie declared and stepped out into the hall. Then, buckling tight her coat round her tiny waist, she looked up to see what Anne and William had already seen—William had grabbed Anne's arm on the door, and both for a moment stopped breathing—a commotion against the far wall: a tall man wrapped like a spider around a small, wriggling woman with big hair and big heels, Gideon Blanchard in his three-piece suit bundling April Penze's coat in one hand and her purple-skirted ass cheek in the other, grabbing and rummaging, his big hands all over her hair and perfume and her little moans all over the rotten landing.

“Oh my God,” said Sadie, and then again she yelled, “Oh my God!”

Looking over the frosted curls, Gideon spotted his daughter and shoved April forcibly to one side to reach for her, but she was already dropping down, taking the steps three at a time in her little jeweled flats. “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” he hollered, tearing down after her. April scrambled up and they heard her door slam, then the front door wheezed and Gideon was bellowing on the sidewalk, “Goddammit. Fuck. Darling, wait!”

Mitchell let out one late, excited bark. For a moment William and Anne stood there. She replayed what she'd seen, trying to think. In surprise and shame, they almost smiled. Then William turned to Anne with frightened eyes when they heard the door slam open again, and heavy feet climbing back up—together they were stepping back, crazily but instinctively not wanting to face Blanchard's rage, his lying, caught-out pace pounding the carpet as though he might salvage something by coming back for them.

“Shit,” whispered William.

The pounding turned the corner. It was not Gideon Blanchard. It was Martin Waverly, looking puzzled and keen, extending a bouquet of daisies in airport cellophane.

“Annie?” he asked.

JANUARY

A
NNE COULD TELL
by the sound of the city against the glass that the snow was beginning to stick. The wind shifted to the north and east, drawing a muffle over the streets and the
grind-swish
of spinning tires. In the direction of the lake the sky was pink. It was not yet 7
A.M
.

Inside, carnage: Martin slumbering across her bed, windmilled from corner to corner; in the front room, William, tucked beneath her mother's cashmere throw, his color-block socks extending on her love seat's arm; and on the floor, Mitchell, upside down, one big brown eye on her as she moved from her desk to the window and back again. Pacing like an inmate, penned in by sleeping boy-men.

She'd been able to convince Martin not to put William out in the dark, saying it wasn't safe, but that was more to postpone being alone with him than it was to protect a perfectly competent city kid. Martin had permitted himself to be entertained by the story they'd told, of the exposure of Gideon Blanchard, William's expulsion from his Lake Shore Drive bedroom, and even the newly solved thieving concern. But he would not tolerate William's presence much longer. He'd kick him out, and then she would have to face this thing. All night she'd lain there, sleepless, frostier than Old Nassau. Finally she got up and tiptoed to her desk, feeling the weight of the jilted everywhere. She tapped out a text to Sadie.

DON'T WANT TO CALL AND WAKE YOU. I HOPE YOU ARE DOING OKAY. CALL IF YOU WANT. ANNE

When there was no reply, Anne felt helpless. She studied the back of William's head. Quite a haircut, a million different lengths still immaculately indexed at his temples. She wished he'd wake up. Should she wake him up?

I've been hiding behind these kids for years, she thought, and now I am literally, actually taking cover behind the presence of a student. In my apartment. On New Year's Day.

For the first time in a long time, Anne knew what to do. She had been delivered, as if by the stroke of midnight, into cold certainty. In fact it was the stroke of Gideon Blanchard that had delivered her: the sight of his hand working April Penze's tush, like some cartoon of desire. What she'd seen wasn't lust; it was avarice. It was entitled. She recognized it because it reminded her of Martin. Then he had bounded up the stairs a few moments later and confirmed her impression.

She sat in the dawn, heavy with the ache that accompanies serious fear of change. She felt her body in space so acutely she could sense time pulsing past, like a fish suddenly made aware of the current. Anne figured she'd probably be single forever. She sighed to think of all the weddings as a plus-one. She'd have to freeze her eggs. When did one do that? she wondered. Thirty-five? What did it cost? But it didn't matter: she was already six weeks into this heartbreak, and the clump of daisies in a glass on her desk was not going to turn her back. Life was saying—it was unmistakable—
Go now.

There was just one thing she needed to know. One reason she didn't just boot William, leash up the dog, and evacuate. After the revelation about Lynn, after so much dead time, what was it that drove Martin to fly unannounced across the country to reclaim her hand? What was he
thinking,
as he buckled in and felt the wheels leave the ground? “Lynn's no more,” Martin had said. “She understands.” As though Lynn were the one who deserved reasons. What blind bull heart beat in these men and made them think they could have anything they wanted?

Because she needed a little bit of that.

The boys snored. Anne's phone hopped.

CHECK UR EMAIL

She popped open her laptop and set it aglow. Sadie's e-mail read, in its entirety:

MY FINAL ESSAY THAT I SUBMITTED, xoxo.

And an attachment. Anne swallowed a whoop of triumph. Sadie had actually gone home and pulled something together and sent it in. It was remarkable; it made Anne love her fiercely. So there was hope for Cristina; and renewed hope for Sadie, too. Anne clicked to open the essay, and just then Martin emerged from her bedroom, in his underwear.

“Up and at 'em, Sebastian Flyte.” With his toes he poked at William's side. “Let's move!”

William startled.

Anne closed her computer and glared. “Martin, quiet,” she hissed.

He raised his voice. “Now.”

“Okay, okay,” grumbled William. He began to gather himself and sat up. He raised his arms overhead in a long, childlike stretch, yawning out loud. Martin sent out a fist to the boy's solar plexus, just enough to make him
huff
and roll up again into his arms.

“What the fuck?” said Anne. “Martin?”

“Just messing around,” he told her. “Guy to guy. Let's go, kiddo.”

“I'm going.”

“Hang on, I'll walk you home,” Anne said.

“No, you won't,” said Martin.

“I'm fine,” William told her. He hurried into his shoes and jacket.

“Mitch needs to go out anyway,” Anne told Martin. “I will walk him home.”

William stood by the door, scarf tight around his neck. “No. I'm good.” He looked at Martin. “You're an asshole.” Then he waved to Anne and left.

“Bye,” said Anne, despondent.

“Good luck,” Martin called after him. “Hands off the goddamn paper.”

They heard the downstairs doors slam.

Martin sank back on her sofa, patting the seat beside him. “Finally.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Anne said.

“Oh, honey.” Martin's voice was calm, his demeanor mild. He smiled up at her. He was earnest and composed and quietly inviting. Martin Waverly, in his groove. As though Lynn and their broken engagement and the surprise flight from L.A. and the night with a teenager on her sofa were all just temporary blips on the radar screen, and it was clear sailing now. For so long, Anne had mistaken this apathy for perspective. How young she'd been, to give him that! What she saw now was simple and essential, like an element, like salt: Martin Waverly wasn't sophisticated. He was selfish.

“You are an asshole,” Anne said. “He's right.”

“Jesus, Anne,” Martin said. “Let's not let the kid come between us.”

“The kid? The kid come between us?”

“Annie.” He stood up and approached her, set his hands on her hips. It had always been her favorite move and he knew it. Now she felt pinned, like a bug.

“Off,” she said, and began to dress. She raked a brush through her hair, scrolled it into a loose knot, pulled on a sweater and thick tights. As she moved she realized that all she needed to do was walk out and this would end.

“Annie,” Martin repeated. He bent to scratch Mitchell's neck, trying to lure her to his side. “Just tell me, what is it you need me to say? What do you need to hear? 'Cause I'm here. I know you're mad. I know I fucked up. But I went back to L.A., I dealt with it, it's over. I want you. I want you to move with me. I want to marry you. It's a new year. Let's go. What is it you need me to say?”

She stomped into her boots and paused. Outside, car tires whirred and whined in the snow. “I want you to tell me this,” she said. “When—”

“I didn't love her.”

She waved him off. “No, not that. Listen. I want you to explain this: when you're a stage actor, and you decide you're going to just get into TV and film, so you up and leave Chicago to head out to L.A., and you land there and go pick up your bag at luggage claim and head out to the curb and there's the city and there you are, starting again, and everything's new—when you do that, what is it you're feeling? What is it you're thinking?”

He frowned at her. Confusion made him angry. He may have been an intellectual, but he had never been curious.

“I don't know,” he replied. “I guess I think, here's this thing I really want to do, and I'd be as good or better at it than all the people doing it already, so I just start knocking on doors.”

“But you don't have TV training, you don't have movie experience, you don't have a degree . . .”

He loved being reminded of these things. His head bounced up and down in agreement. Then he said, “Smoke and mirrors, baby. Give them what they want. Who cares if it's true or not?”

He gave her his flippest grin, a tall salesman in his underwear.

“I see,” Anne said. “And this person Lynn?”

He sobered up his face and nodded.

“What were you thinking then?”

“You know, sweetheart,” he told her, wincing a bit, “monogamy is just not my strong suit. Never has been. But I promise you, with you, it's different. It will be different. Already is. I've never—”

Anne leashed up Mitchell and pulled on her gloves.

“Right,” she interrupted. “That's helpful. Listen. I'm going to walk the dog. We'll head to the lake and back. That means you have about half an hour to pack up. When I get back, you'll be gone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want you out.”

“What?”

“Half an hour.”

On his features, confusion turned to chaos. His jaw dropped and drew down his eyes and cheeks. He was almost crying, or trying to cry, or something—Anne wasn't sure—no feeling she could name passed over his face save an almost juvenile, helpless frustration. For an instant her heart lurched, and she felt a blast of panic—What am I doing?—and then, calmly, she remembered. Five years of bobbing and leaning and pining. The sucker punch to a sad teenage boy. Someone called Lynn.
Strong suit?
“Bye-bye,” she told him.

She opened her door and led Mitchell to the hall.

And to turn the knife, she added, “You ought to say good-bye to Mitch, too. He liked you. You'll never see him again.”

Now Martin really did weep. “Of course,” he said. “Of course.” He came to her side and dropped to his knees, pulling the dog awkwardly to his chest. Mitchell, pulled off balance, tapped on his feet to steady himself and snuffled Anne's glove, alarmed.

She looked down at Martin, who was shedding years in front of her, like some trick of visual editing, looking now like the Marty Waversky he'd been as a boy, a gawky, too-tall Jewish kid with wiry hair he could never really tame and a mother who insisted he take both Communion and center stage. He might have been one of Anne's students—that lost. Worse. He clung to the dog and cried. She thought of all of his trials and successes and arrogant fuckups and realized that he moved through the world like some untutored, lesser god, just hurling his thunderbolts all over the place.

“Of course you're going to leave me,” he was saying, directly into the dog's coat. “Of course you are. Of course you are. You were never serious about me. You never really loved me.”

Even Anne would not have been reduced to this.

She stared at him. “Oh, I loved you.”

“No, you didn't,” he said, and she wondered if he might be right. And marveled that it didn't matter. She'd work out later what love had meant, in this time and with this man. For now, who cared what they called it?

“The ring?” he asked then. He looked up at her. “Do you even have it?”

“It's at my mom's.”

“Fitting,” he spat. “She was always the one who wanted it anyway.”

“You can bill me,” she said, and pulled shut the door.

 

F
OR A LONG
time, Anne walked. The snow gathered along Mitchell's back and feathered his face until he looked like a wolf. She balled her icy fingers into her gloves. She was pretty sure Martin would take her orders and go—plenty of places for him to hole up in the city, if flights were hard to come by—but she didn't want to take any chances, so she stayed out, ignoring her cell phone's ringing deep in her pocket. Also it was unclear what to do next. Where to start over, to begin again.

The only bright spot was the opportunity to read Sadie's final essay, which would now be on the servers of the Duke University Admissions Office. She had half a mind to walk to Sadie's house and ring the bell. It wasn't far. What on earth would be going on in that home today? She'd almost have paid to witness it, though only the most heartless spectator could enjoy what would no doubt be shattering for Sadie and her brother.

Regardless, it was out of her hands now. Duke was in. Which meant that Sadie was in.

Anne scrunched along the unplowed sidewalks to her local Starbucks, but it was dark; so, too, the one just a few blocks down. The only lights anywhere belonged to the Donut Hole. It was a shit hole, really, but the orange neon from the illuminated sign fell on the frozen sidewalk like a red carpet rolled out just for her, and Anne walked in. Over the door a cold little bell rattled. A young man emerged from a back room behind the counter.

Anne closed the door on Mitchell's leash, to hold him, since the usual tie-up spots were buried or just too cruel to use.

“Oh, you can bring him in,” said the coffee-shop guy. “It's cool. Owner's not around.”

Anne settled Mitchell on the entry mat, stomped snow off her boots, and pulled her frozen hands from her gloves.

“Grill's down,” added the man, “and no pastries came in today. Sorry.”

He was young, not much younger than she was, with freckles, and eyes a little bit too close together. He seemed to be concentrating on her, but in fact it was just that tight focus over the bridge of his nose. Though of course he was paying attention, waiting to see what she wanted. Anne didn't really know. Two people in a coffee shop on a frigid day. The world felt new. For the first time all morning, she thought she might cry.

He gestured to a glass case fogged with grime. Anne could barely make out the shrink-wrapped muffins inside. He said, “We've got these here, but they're kinda old.”

“Just hot chocolate. If you can.”

He grabbed milk and a pitcher and began to steam. “Dog had to go?” he called out, over one shoulder. He tipped his head toward the window to indicate the storm.