Long Division (37 page)

T
oday I'm calling my pathetic use of electronic space
Confession-Booth Graffiti Artist
, and I've been hibernating in my house for almost a week. I bought a portable AC unit, and I've been sitting in front of it basking in the way I can waste resources and waste time and waste my life away. David has not attempted to contact me. I have made only two ventures into the outside world of Happy Meals and Happy Hours and Happy Reminders of nonevil humans. The first time I went to my parents' house unannounced. They were hanging a painting of a country cottage inside the downstairs bathroom, and my mom was saying “Now more to the left, Greg” when I surprised them by peeking my head through the door. They smiled instantly because they love unexpected visits. But it only took a quick second for them both to notice that I was distraught. Before there was a breath of space for them to ask, I spat it out.

“David and I broke up.” My dad, who was straddling the toilet and holding the painting against the wall, quickly maneuvered out of his stance and set the painting down inside the tub. My mother did not chastise him about the moisture in the tub potentially damaging the frame. Instead she said something like
Oh, Annie
and hugged me. And this time, I really
really
wanted it. This was the hug she was trying to give me back when David left. At the time, it meant nothing. It was a hug of ceremony and hope. And hope, in my opinion, isn't very well represented by an embrace. Hope is a fist thrust into the air. A stack of preaddressed, stamped envelopes. A knitting circle or an upbeat blog. I guess flag-waving was the thing to do after all. The day David left and my mom had me over for quiche, the hugging wasn't quite right. Nothing bad had happened, no one had suffered, no one had died, L.O.V.E. was still robust and still intact. But now, with loss behind us, and failure stuck to the heels of my shoes—a glaring white and obvious toilet paper train—the hug was
so
in order. This hug (her strong arms around my shoulders and my father's heavy hand resting in the middle of my tired, evil back), this hug was fucking loaded.

We settled into the living room, and I told them honestly and frankly about the demise of the David Peterson/Annie Harper union. And somehow, they didn't hate me for it. They said things like
You did the right thing
and
No use in keeping up a charade
and
War does strange things to people.
I was scared my mother would accuse me of making a mistake, that she would ask me how sure I was and if I'd thought it out for long. But no, they totally got it. I considered throwing in the whole secret-love-for-Gus thing, but I abstained. For some reason I thought they'd find it foolish and immature. That admitting I was in love with Gus would discredit the valid reasons I had for ending things with David. And my parents really knew Gus as my best friend. Would they fi nd the desire to involve myself romantically with him completely absurd? Would they think I'd lost all sensibility? And plus, it was an embarrassing thing to admit to them. It was like telling them who I wanted to ask me to “couples skate” at the roller rink in seventh grade. It made me feel so young.

The three of us drank coffee, and after a few cups the caffeine was surging and urging me into a boldness I couldn't repress.

“So,” I said. “Do you think I've ruined my life?” My mom scoffed and set her cup down on a coaster. My dad verbalized the scoff with an awesome, paternal authority that was just the thing I wanted to hear.

“God no, Annie. You are so young!”

After two days of solitude and dry armpits, I went to visit Loretta. On the way over I realized that I had finally gone to my parents first. When something real
¹⁶¹
actually happened, I sought them right away and with little hesitation. Thank goodness for this nonstained chamber of my heart.

 

“So I'm a big failure, Loretta. David and I broke up. He knew I wanted to do it. He said so. And then it was done. It's over. I totally suck at everything.”

“My my my, Annie.” Loretta shuffled over to my side and joined me on her bed. “You do not totally suck at everything. Maybe you did become a lousy girlfriend to that young man, but you've been a wonderful friend to me.” She placed a hand on my thigh. “That's all I care about.”

“Phew,” I said and smiled. “You've been a wonderful friend too.” We exchanged knowing looks. The shared grin of the world's two greatest deceivers. If we'd have been holding martini glasses or champagne flutes or teacups, we'd have clinked them together at this moment. But instead Loretta took my hand and we smiled for several more moments. And though her hand was a very different texture than mine—older and rougher—the temperature of our palms was exactly the same.

Again, I wanted to talk about Gus. I wanted to get all sixth grade and ask Loretta
So, do you think he likes me? I mean like
like
likes me? Do you think he'll ask me to couples skate with him? Do you think he's ready to move on after Gina? Do you think I'm permanently stuck in the “ just friends” category? Did you see how dreamy his new haircut is?
GAG. Please kill me. Loretta and I are close, but not close enough for me to put her through this quite yet. One thing at a time, Miss Harper. One thing. One thing.

 

So those are the only people I've told. Back to the AC unit. Do you think I can chill my cheeks into a dignified, ice-queen blue?

M
y mother, Loretta, and Gus have each called several times to express their concern over my homebody-ness. I tell them I'm fine and that I'm just taking some alone time to reflect and read and relax. I haven't spilled the beans about David to Gus because I simply feel weird about it. It's not that I'm afraid I'll launch into some loose-lipped love confessional. I've become quite skilled at keeping that in. My fear is of him judging me. The last thing I want in this universe and every single alternate universe is for Gus to think I am a bad person. For Gus to see what mess I've dragged David through and how capable I am of delivering blows below the belt. Additionally, because I've been secretly in love with Gus for much of this year, I've been withholding discussions about my relationship with David. He probably has no idea that things were going so miserably. Is he going to be angry with me for not confiding in him, my supposed best platonic friend? I am such a hopeless ruiner. Ruining everything. I could ruin already ruined ancient ruins, I'm so ruintastic.

I am flipping through an L.L.Bean catalog
¹⁶³
when Gus calls me again. I've made far too many excuses not to see him, and he's had enough of it. He says he's coming over, he's bringing food, and we're going to grill it, eat it, and relax. No mention of long, serious discussions about my recent hermit tendencies, so I don't argue. Instead, I hang up. I take a shower, braid my wet hair into a single French braid, and get out the portable vacuum. I pull the cushions out from the sofa, and there are enough crumbs inside to keep a flock of pigeons happy for an entire morning. As I vacuum, I try to tell myself that it's not Gus coming over that's making me feel better. My back loosens and my eyes seem to open wider. I tell myself it's the crumbs. The way they zoom straight into the vacuum and disappear forever. Good-bye mess! Good-bye millions of specks of emotional gobbledygook! So long! When I turn the vacuum off, I hear the doorbell.

“Hi Annie,” he says.

“Hi,” I say, and he plows through me to the kitchen.

I pour us each a glass of white wine
¹⁶⁴
while Gus forages through my assortment of vinegars and spices. He mixes a marinade in a clear glass bowl. He's chopping up chunks of a sirloin tip steak when he says, “So what's going on, Annie?”

“Stuff,” I say. “Things.”

“Oh,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it? It's not about Our Brother Alden, is it?” He drops a handful of the meat chunks into the marinade, and I watch the fatty edges of them stick to the clear sides of the bowl. He starts rinsing a red bell pepper.

“No. Well. Yeah. Well. Not really,” I say. “I don't want to talk about it now at least. I mean, probably. Eventually. Yeah. I will want to. I'm just kind of in this place where I need to figure out what I really want and what I really feel and what I should really expect from the universe.” I take a drink of my wine, hoping I don't sound too cryptic or psychotic or boring. Gus turns around from the counter to look at me. I say: “I didn't articulate that very well. Sorry.”

“No, I get it,” he says. He guts the red pepper and begins to chop it into squares.

“What's on the menu?” I ask.

“Shish kebabs.”

“Great. I have metal skewers.” I stand up and yank open a drawer, pull out the bundle of sharp sticks. Gus turns around and they're at chest level, like I'm about to stab him in the heart with my collection of tiny daggers. I imagine a cartoon image of the human heart, blood squirting playfully from ten new orifices.

“Yikes,” he says, and we both pick up our heads and look at each other's eyes and laugh exactly two snorting chuckles. I return to my chair and my wine and Gus continues to chop and clean and prep in silence. I watch the whole time, trying not to stare at his back for too long at once. In case he turns around. The onion takes its turn. A zucchini. Cherry tomatoes. Finally, he pulls a plastic sack of loose white mushrooms from his shopping bag. He holds it in his hands and stares at it for a long time. He dumps the mushrooms in the colander and gives them a gentle rinse with the spray gun. (I think of telling him that it's better for the mushrooms to wipe them clean with a wet cloth.) He takes a dish towel from the oven rack, folds it into fourths, turns, and places it on the kitchen table in front of me. He takes the colander of mushrooms and places it on top of the towel.

“You want me to destem these?” I reach my hand out to snag the biggest mushroom off the top of the pile. He grabs my hand to stop it.

“No. Not yet.” Gus sits down across from me and folds his hands on the table. He exhales. Stands up to retrieve his wine glass from the counter. He sits again and takes a huge, loud gulp. I watch his Adam's apple dip down his neck and bob back up. I bite my lip.

Silence. Silence. Silence.

“Annie,” he finally says. “This might not be the best time for this, but there's something I need to explain.” I don't say anything. I start flexing my butt muscles on my chair and I nod. Gus continues. “Well. Um. Gosh. I don't. Maybe. Never mind. Annie?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, and I snake my feet around the legs of my chair.

“Okay. I remember this one time when you and I cooked pizza in my dad's kitchen. It was the summer right after we graduated college. Right before I left for the Peace Corps. You were cleaning mushrooms, I was rambling on about something stupid like I do, and you told me to shut up. You said you wanted to hear the sound of the mushroom stem being pulled from the cap. That it was such a great sound.”